^'^ ^ 



LEISURE HOURS: 



A CHOICE COLLECTION OF 



READINGS IN PROSE. 



BY PROF. Ei^ArANDREW 



NEW ILLUSTRATED EDITION 



BO STON: 



T. H. CARTER «& CO. AND B. B. MUSSEY 
1844. 



v- 



f^^> 



PREFACE 



This work consists of Tales and Essays selected 
from various English publications, which have either 
never been published in this country, or have had but 
a very limited circulation here. It is intended to be, 
as its name implies, a useful and entertaining com- 
panion for LEISURE HOURS, — a book which may en- 
liven the family circle, when assembled upon a win- 
ter's evening around the social hearth, — which may 
accompany the reader while travelling by land or 
water, in stage-coaches or in steam-boats, — which may 
go with him when he flies from the heat, and noise, 
and dust of the city, to the pure air, and refreshing 
shade, and quiet enjoyments of the country, — which 
may cheer him in hours of languor and of sickness, — 
and which may profitably fill up those vacant hours 
in the life of a student, or man of business, when the 
mind, exhausted by its efforts, seeks, in amusement, 
for the restoration of its wonted powers. If it shall 
be found to contribute to these purposes, — if, while it 
1* 



PREFACE. 



amuses, it shall sometimes instruct by the pictures of 
life which it exhibits, — if, by the elegance of its style, 
and the purity of its sentiments, it shall serve to im- 
prove the literary or moral taste of our countrymen, 
we shall deem the time and labor, which we have de- 
voted to its preparation, well bestowed 

This volume may, in due time, be followed by 
others, perhaps of a widely-different character ; but 
in all our publications it will be our object to blend 
entertainment with instruction, to improve the taste 
while the various powers of the mind are called into 
pleasant and healthful exercise, and to aid in training 
the moral feelings to the love and practice of every 
duty. 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

The Dean of Santiago 9 

A Country Lodging 17 

Ahmed the Cobbler 31 

Rouge et Noir 54 

The Heiress 69 

The Bitter Wedding 72 

The Rustic Wreath 85 

The Merchant's Daughter 92 

Loreley Ill 

Dream-Children 125 

John Brown 130 

Little Rachel - 141 

Ebony and Topaz 146 

The Three Advices 162 

The City of the Demons 169 

Bohdo 179 

The Harp 181 

The Soldier's Wife 185 

The Lost Child 190 

The Lying Servant 196 

Renstern 200 

A Vindication of Authors 212 

Courtship and Marriage 225 

The Play at Venice 231 

The Son and Heir 238 

A Scene on the Pont Neuf. 251 



8 CONTENTS. 

Page. 

Lacy de Vere 255 

Calum Dhu 271 

Hannah 279 

The Goldsmith of Padua 285 

Master and Man 296 

The Venetian Girl 303 

Cousin Mary 310 

Gordon the Gypsy , 316 

Death and the Drunkards 327 

Peter Glaus 332 

My Two Aunts 335 



LEISURE HOURS 



THE DEAN OF SANTIAGO. 

It was but a short hour before noon, when the Dean of 
Santiago alighted from his mule at the door of Don Julian, 
the celebrated magician of Toledo. The house, accord- 
ing to old tradition, stood on the brink of the perpendicu- 
lar rock, which, now crowned with the Alcazar, rises to 
a fearful height over the Tagus. A maid of Moorish 
blood led the dean to a retired apartment, where Don 
Julian was reading. The natural politeness of a Castilian 
had rather been improved than impaired by the studies of 
the Toledan sage, who exhibited nothing, either in his 
dress or person, that might induce a suspicion of his deal- 
ing with the mysterious powers of darkness. '' I heartily 
greet your reverence," said Don Julian to the dean, " and 
feel highly honored by this visit. Whatever be the object 
of it, let me beg you will defer stating it till I have made 
you quite at home in this house. I hear my housekeeper 
making ready the noonday meal. That maid, sir, will 
show you the room which has been prepared for you ; and 
when you have brushed off the dust of the journey, you 
shall find a canonical capon steaming hot upon the board." 
The dinner, which soon followed, was just what a pamper- 
ed Spanish canon would wish it — abundant, nutritive, and 
delicate. " No, no," said Don Julian, when the soup and a 
bumper of Tinto had recruited the dean's spirits, and he 



10 THE DEAN OF SANTIAGO. 

saw him making an attempt to break the object of his visit 
— " no business, please your reverence, while at dinner. 
Let us enjay our meal at present ; and when we have dis- 
cussed the OUa, the capon, and a bottle of Yepes, it will 
be time enough to turn to the cares of life." The ecclesi- 
astic's full face had never beamed with more glee, at the 
collation on Christmas eve, when, by the indulgence of the 
chur( h, the fast is broken at sunset, instead of continuing 
through the night, than it did now under the influence of 
Don Julian's good humor and heart-cheering wine. Still 
it was evident that some vehement and ungovernable wish 
had taken possession of his mind, breaking out now and 
then in some hurried motion, some gulping up of a full 
glass of wine without stopping to relish the flavor, and 
fifty other symptoms of absence and impatience, which, at 
such a distance from the cathedral, could not be attributed 
to the afternoon bell. The time came, at length, of rising 
from table ; and in spite of Don Julian's pressing request 
to have another bottle, the dean, with a certain dignity 
of manner, led his good-natured host to the recess of an 
oriel window, looking upon the river. " Allow me, dear 
Don Julian," he said, " to open my heart to you ; for even 
your hospitality must fail to make me completely happy 
till I have obtained the boon which I came to ask. I 
know that no man ever possessed greater power than you 
over the invisible agents of the universe. I die to be- 
come an adept in that wonderful science ; and if you will 
receive me for your pupil, there is nothing I should think 
of sufficient worth to repay your friendship." — " Good 
sir," replied Don Julian, "■ I should be extremely loath to 
offend you ; but permit me to say, that, in spite of the 
knowledge of causes and effects which I have acquired, 
all that my experience teaches me of the heart of man is 
not only vague and indistinct, but for the most part un- 
favorable. I only guess ; I cannot read their thoughts, nor 
pry into the recesses of their minds. As for yourself, I 



THE DEAN OF SANTIAGO. 11 

am sure you are a rising man, and likely to obtain the first 
dignities of the church. But whether, when you find 
yourself in places of high honor and patronage, you will 
remember the humble personage of whom you now ask a 
hazardous and important service, it is impossible for me to 
ascertain." " Nay, nay," exclaimed the dean ; " but I 
know myself, if you do not, Don Julian. Generosity and 
friendship (since you force me to speak in my own praise) 
have been the delight of my soul even from childhood. 
Doubt not, my dear friend (for by that name I wish you 
would allow me to call you), doubt not, from this moment, 
to command my services. Whatever interest I may pos- 
sess, it will be my highest gratification to see it redound 
in favor of you and yours." '< My hearty thanks for all, 
worthy sir," said Don Julian ; " but let us now proceed to 
business ; the sun is set, and, if you please, we will retire 
to my private study." 

Lights being called for, Don Julian led the way to the 
lower part of the house ; and dismissing the Moorish 
maid near a small door, of which he held the key in his 
hand, desired her to get two partridges for supper, but not 
to dress them till he should order it : then unlocking the 
door, he began to descend by a winding stair-case. The 
dean followed with a certain degree of trepidation, which 
the length of the stairs greatly tended to increase ; for, to 
all appearance, they reached below the bed of the Tagus. 
At this depth a comfortable, neat room was found; the 
walls completely covered with shelves, where Don Julian 
kept his works on magic ; globes, planispheres, and strange 
drawings, occupied the top of the book-cases. Fresh air 
was admitted, though it would be difficult to guess by 
what means, since the sound of gliding water, such as is 
heard at the lower part of a ship when sailing with a gen- 
tle breeze, indicated but a thin partition between the sub- 
terraneous cabinet and the river. " Here, then," said 
Don Julian, offering a chair to the dean, and drawing 



12 THE DEAN OF SANTIAGO. 

another for himself towards a small, round table, " we 
have only to choose among the elementary works of the 
science for which you long. Suppose we begin to read 
this small volume." The volume was laid on the table, 
and opened at the first page, containing circles, concen- 
tric and eccentric, triangles with unintelligible characters, 
and the well-known signs of the planets. " This," said 
Don Julian, '' is the alphabet of the whole science. Her- 
mes, called Trismegistus " The sound of a small 

bell within the chamber, made the dean almost leap out 
of his chair. *' Be not alarmed," said Don Julian ; " it 
is the bell by which my servants let me know that they 
want to speak to me." Saying thus, he pulled a silk 
string, and soon after a servant appeared with a packet of 
letters. It was addressed to the dean. A courier had 
closely followed him on the road, and was that moment 
arrived at Toledo. "Good Heavens!" exclaimed the 
dean, having read the contents of the letters ; " my great 
uncle, the archbishop of Santiago, is dangerously ill. 
This is, however, what the secretary says, from his lord- 
ship's dictation. But here is another letter from the arch^ 
deacon of the diocese, who assures me that the old man 
was not expected to live. I can hardly repeat what he 
adds. Poor dear uncle ! may Heaven lengthen his days ! 
The chapter* seem to have turned their eyes towards me, 
and — pugh ! it cannot be — but the electors, according to 
the archdeacon, are quite decided in my favor." "Well," 
said Don Julian, " all I regret is the interruption of our 
studies ; but I doubt not that you will soon wear the mitre. 
In the mean time, I would advise you to pretend that ill- 
ness does not allow you to return directly. A few days 
will surely give a decided turn to the whole affair ; and, 
at all events, your absence, in case of an election, will be 



• The ecclesiastical body to which the right of electing a bishop 
belongs. 



THE DEAN OF SANTIAGO. 13 

construed into modesty. Write, therefore, your des- 
patches, my dear sir, and we will prosecute our studies at 
another time." 

Two days had elapsed since the arrival of the messen- 
ger, when the verger of the church of Santiago, attended 
by servants in splendid liveries, alighted at Don Julian's 
door with letters for the dean. The old prelate was dead, 
and his nephew had been elected to the see, by the unani- 
mous vote of the chapter. The elected dignitary seemed 
overcome by contending feelings; but, having wiped away 
sortie decent tears, he assumed an air of gravity, which 
almost touched on superciliousness. Don Julian address- 
ed his congratulations, and was the first to kiss the new 
archbishop's hand. " I hope," he added, " I may also 
congratulate my son, the young man who is now at the 
university of Paris ; for I flatter myself your lordship will 
give him the deanery, which is vacant by your promo- 
tion." " My worthy friend, Don Julian," replied the 
archbishop elect, " my obligations to you I can never 
sufficiently repay. You have heard my character ; I hold 
a friend as another self. But why would you take the lad 
away from his studies 1 An archbishop of Santiago can- 
not want preferment at any time. Follow me to my dio- 
cese. I will not for all the mitres in Christendom forego 
the benefit of your instruction. The deanery, to tell 
you the truth, must be given to my uncle, my father's 
own brother, who has had but a small living for many 
years; he is much liked in Santiago, and I should lose my 
character if, to place such a young man as your son 
at the head of the chapter, I neglected an exemplary 
priest, so nearly related to me." " Just as you please, 
my lord," said Don Julian ; and began to prepare for the 
journey. 

The acclamations which greeted the new archbishop 
on his arrival at the capital of Galicia were, not long 
after, succeeded by a universal regret at his translation to 
2 



14 THE DEAN OF SANTIAGO. 

the see of the recently-conquered town of Seville. " I 
will not leave you behind," said the archbishop to Don 
Julian, who, with more timidity than he showed at Toledo, 
approached to kiss the sacred ring in the archbishop's 
right hand,* and to offer his humble congratulations; " but 
do not fret about your son. He is too young. I have my 
mother's relations to provide for ; but Seville is a rich see ; 
the blessed King Ferdinand, who rescued it from the 
Moors, endowed its church so as to make it rival the first 
cathedrals in Christendom. Do but follow me, and all will 
be well in the end." Don Julian bowed with a suppress- 
ed sigh, and was soon after on the banks of the Guadal- 
quivir, in the suite of the new archbishop. 

Scarcely had Don Julian's pupil been at Seville one 
year, when his far-extended fame moved the pope to send 
him a cardinal's hat, desiring his presence at the court of 
Rome. The crowd of visitors who came to congratulate 
the prelate, kept Don Julian away for many days. He at 
length obtained a private audience, and, with tears in his 
eyes, entreated his eminence not to oblige him to quit 
Spain. "I am growing old, my lord," he said : " I quitted 
lYly house at Toledo only for your sake, and in hopes of 
raising my son to some place of honor and emolument in 
the church ; I even gave up my favorite studies, except as 
far as they were of service to your eminence. My son — " 
**No more of that, if you please, Don Julian," interrupted 
the cardinal. ''Follow me you must; who can tell what 
may happen at Rome ? The pope is old, you know. But 
do not tease me about preferment. A public man has 
duties of a description which those in the lower ranks of 
life cannot either weigh or comprehend. I confess I am 
under obligations to you, and feel quite disposed to reward 
your services; yet I must not have my creditors knocking 



* Catholic bishops wear a consecrated ring, which is kissed, with 
a bending of the knee, by those who approach them. 



THE DEAN OF SANTIAGO. 15 

every day at my door ; you understand, Don Julian. In 
a week we set out for Rome." 

With such a strong tide of good fortune as had hitherto 
buoyed up Don Julian's pupil, the reader cannot be sur- 
prised to find him, in a short time, wearing the papal 
crown. He was now arrived at the highest place of honor 
on earth ; but in the bustle of the election and subsequent 
coronation, the man to whose wonderful science he owed 
this rapid ascent, had completely slipped off his memory. 
Fatio-ued with the exhibition of himself throuo-h the streets 
of Rome, which he had been obliged to make in a sol- 
emn procession, the new pope sat alone in one of the 
chambers of the Vatican. It was early in the night. By 
the light of two wax tapers, which scarcely illuminated the 
farthest end of the grand saloon, his holiness was enjoy- 
ing that reverie of mixed pain and pleasure which follows 
the complete attainment of ardent wishes, when Don 
Julian advanced, in visible perturbation, conscious of the 
intrusion on which he ventured. " Holy father," ex- 
claimed the old man, and cast himself at his pupil's feet; 
** holy father, in pity to these gray hairs, do not consign 
an old servant — might I not say an old friend ? — to utter 
neglect and forgetfulness. My son — " " By saint Peter! " 
ejaculated his holiness, rising from the chair, "your inso- 
lence shall be checked. — You my friend ! A magician the 
friend of Heaven's vicegerent ! — Away, wretched man ! 
When I pretended to learn of thee, it was only to sound 
the abyss of crime into which thou hadst plunged ; I did 
it with a view of bringing thee to condign punishment. 
Yet, in compassion to thy age, I will not make an exam- 
ple of thee, provided thou avoidest my eyes. Hide thy 
crime and shame where thou canst. This moment thou 
must quit the palace, or the next closes the gates of the 
inquisition upon thee." 

Trembling, and his wrinkled face bedewed with tears, 



16 THE DEAN OF SANTIAGO. 

Don Julian begged to be allowed but one word more. " I 
am very poor, holy father," said he : " trusting in your 
patronage, I relinquished my all, and have not left where- 
with to pay my journey." *' Away, I say," answered the 
pope; ** if my excessive bounty has made you neglect 
your patrimony, I will no further encourage your waste and 
improvidence. Poverty is but a slight punishment for 
your crimes." ** But, father," rejoined Don Julian, " my 
wants are instant; I am hungry: give me but a trifle to 
procure a supper to-night. To-morrow I shall beg my 
way out of Rome." " Heaven forbid," said the pope, 
" that I should be guilty of feeding the ally of the prince 
of darkness. Away, away from my presence, or I in- 
stantly call for the guard." " Well, then," replied Don 
Julian, rising from the ground, and looking on the pope 
with a boldness which began to throw his holiness into a 
paroxysm of rage, " if I am to starve at Rome, I had bet- 
ter return to the supper which I ordered at Toledo." 
Thus saying, he rang a gold bell which stood on a table 
next the pope. The door opened without delay, and the 
Moorish servant came in. The pope looked round, and 
found himself in the subterraneous study under the Tagus. 
" Desire the cook," said Don Julian to the maid, " to put 
but one partridge to roast ; for I will not throw away the 
other on the Dean of Santiago."* 

From the Spanish. 



* The reader will perceive, that the various events which occur 
in this admirable story, from the moment when Don Julian and his 
pupil commence their studies in the chamber beneath the Tagus, to 
the ringing of the gold bell and the entrance of the Moorish maid, 
were but a vision produced in the mind of the Dean of Santiago by 
the magical powers of Don Julian, and were intended to bring to 
light the selfish and unprincipled ambition of the dean. 

Am. Eds. 



A COUNTRY LODGING. 17 



A COUNTRY LODGING. 



On my way back to town, the other evening, from a 
visit, I had the misfortune, at the turning of a road, not to 
see a projecting gateway, till I came too near it. I leaped 
the ditch that ran by, but my horse went too close to the 
side-post ; and my leg was so hurt, that I was obliged to 
limp into a cottage, and have been laid up ever since. 
The doctor tells me I am to have three or four weeks of it, 
perhaps more. 

As soon as I found myself fixed, I looked about me to 
see what consolations I could get in my new abode. The 
place was quiet. That was one thing. It was also clean, 
and had a decent looking hostess. Those were two more. 
Thirdly, I heard the wind in the trees. This was much. 
" You have trees opposite the window ? " " Yes, sir, some 
fine elms. You will hear the birds of a morning." "And 
you have poultry, to take care of my fever with ? and eggs 
and bacon, when I get better ? and a garden and a pad- 
dock, when I, walk again, eh? and capital milk, and a milk- 
maid, whom it's a sight to see carrying it over the field." 
"Why, sir," said my hostess, good-humoredly but gravely, 
" as to the milk-maid, I can say nothing ; but we have 
capital milk at Pouldon, and good eggs and bacon, and 
paddocks in plenty, and every thing else that horse or man 
can desire, in an honest way." 

The curtains were very neat and white, the rest of the 
furniture corresponding. There was a small couch, and a 
long-backed arm-chair, looking as if it was made for me. 
" That settee," thought I, " I shall move into that other 
part of the room : — it will be snugger, and more away from 
the door. The arm-chair and the table shall go near the 
window, when I can sit up ; so that I may have the trees 
at the corner of my eye, as I am writing." The table, a 
small mahogany one, was very good, and reflected the two 
2* 



19 A COUNTRY LODGING. 

candles very prettily, but it looked bald. There were no 
books on it. 

" Pray, Mrs. Wilson, have you any books? " 
" Oh, plenty of books. But won't you be afraid to study, 
sir, with that leg?" 

" I'll study without it, if you can undo it for me." 
" Dear me ! sir, but won't it make you feverish ? " 
** Yes, unless I can read all the while. I must study 
philosophy, Mrs. Wilson, in order to bear it: so, if you 
have any novels or comedies — " " Why, for novels or 
comedies, sir, I can't say. But I'll show you what there is. 
When our lady was alive, — rest her soul ! — eight months 
ago, the house was nothing but books. I dare say she had 
a matter of a hundred. But I've a good set too, below ; 
some of my poor dear husband's, and some of my own." 
" I see," said I, as she left the room, " that I shall be 
obliged to send to the clergyman ; and that's a forlorn 
hope. If there's a philosopher in the village, — some Jac- 
obinical carpenter or shoemaker, — there will be another 
chance. At all events, I shall behave in the most impu- 
dent manner, and send all round. * Nccessitas non habet 
LEGS,' as Peter Pindar says. This is the worst of books. 
A habit of reading is like a habit of drinking. You can- 
not do without it, especially under misfortune. I wonder 
whether I could leave off reading, beginning with a para- 
graph less a day 1 " 

Mrs. Wilson returned with an arm full. " This, sir," 
said she, giving me the top one, "our lady left me for a 
keep-sake," It was Mrs. Chapone's Essays. " Pray," 
said I, " Mrs. Wilson, who was the lady whom you desig- 
nate as the Roman Catholics do the Virgin ? Who was 
Our lady ? " Mrs. Wilson looked very grave, but I 
thought there was a smile lurking under her gravity in 
spite of her. " Miss V., sir, was no Roman : and as to 
the Virgin, by which I suppose, sir, you mean the — but 
liowever — oh, she was an excellent woman, sir ; her mother 



A COUNTRY LODGING. 19 

was a friend of the great Mr. Samuel Richardson." " Oh 
ho!" thought I, looking over the books, ** then we shall 
have Pamela." — There was the Farrier's Guide, some 
Treatises on Timber and the Cultivation of Wood (my 
hostess was a carpenter's widow), Jachin and Boaz (which 
she called a strange, fantastic book), Mrs. Glasse's Cook- 
ery, Wesley's Receipts, an old Court Calendar, the Whole 
Duty of Man, nine numbers of the Calvinist's Magazine, 
an odd volume of the Newgate Calendar, the Life of Colo- 
nel Gardiner, and, sure as fate, at the bottom of the heap, 
Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded. '' Virtue Rewarded ! " 
thought I : " I hate these mercenary virtues ; these bills 
brought to Heaven for payment ; these clinkings of cash 
in the white pockets of conscience." *' You have one 
novel, at any rate, Mrs. Wilson." " Sure, sir, it is better 
than a novel. Oh, it is a book full of good fortune." 
** Of good fortune ! What, to the maid-servant? " " To 
every body that has to do with it. Miss V. was dubious 
like which of the cottages to live in ; and she fancied 
ours, because she found Pamela and Colonel Gardiner in 
the corner-cupboard." " I dare say. — Now, here," said I, 
when left to myself, " here is vanity at second hand. The 
old lady must take a cottage because she found a book in 
it, written by an old gentleman, who knew the old lady 
her mother. And what a book!" With all my admira- 
tion of Richardson, Pamela had ever been an object of 
my dislike. I hated her little canting ways, her egotism 
eternally protesting humility, and her readiness to make a 
prize of the man, who, finding his endeavors vain to ruin 
her, reconciled her virtue and vanity together by proposing 
to make her his wife. Pamela's is the only female face to 
which I think I could ever have wished to give a good box 
on the ear. ** And this," said I, " was the old maid's 
taste. It is a pity she was not a servant-maid." While 
I was thus venting my spleen against a harmless old 
woman, in a condition of life which T had always treat- 



20 A COUNTRY LODGING. 

ed with respect, and was beginning to regret that I had 
got into " method istical " lodgings, my hostess comes 
back again. As I did not seem to be very particu- 
larly satisfied with this collection, the old lady went out 
again, and presently returned with three more books, to 
wit. Paradise Lost, Thomson's Seasons, and a volume 
containing the whole of the Spectator in double columns. 
"Head of my ancestors!" cried I, uttering (but inter- 
nally) a Chinese exclamation ; " here thou art at home 
again, Harry ! This is sense. This is something like. 
The cottage is an excellent cottage, and, for aught I know, 
had the honor of being one of the many cottages in which 
my great grandfather's friend Sir Richard used to eschew 
the visits of the importunate." 

There was a bed-room as neat as the sitting-room, and 
with more trees at the window. My leg was very painful, 
and I had feverish dreams. However, my horseback had 
made me nothing the worse for my dinner, and, having 
taken no supper, my dreams, though disturbed, were not 
frightful. I dreamt of Pamela, and Dick Honeycomb, and 
my ancestor Nathaniel. I thought that my landlady was 
Mrs. Harlowe, and that Dick, being pressed to marry, said 
he would not have his cousin Pamela, but Nell Gwynn ; 
which the serious commonwealth officer approved, " Be- 
cause," said he, " of the other's immoral character." 

In the mornino- it was delightful to hear the sound of 
the birds. There is something exhilarating in the singing 
of birds, analogous to the brilliancy of sunshine. My leg 
was now worse, but not bad enough to hinder me from 
noticing the " chancy " shepherds and shepherdesses on 
the mantel-piece, or those others on the colored bed-cur- 
tain ; loving pairs with lambs, repeated in the same group 
at intervals all over the chintz, as if the beholder had a 
cut-glass eye. The window of the sitting-room has a lit- 
tle white curtain on a rod. This, of the bed-room, is a 
p'oper casement with diamond panes; and you can see 



A COUNTRY LODGING. 21 

nothing outside, but green leaves. However ill I may be, 
I am always the worse for lying in bed. I contrived to 
get up and remove to the settee in the other room ; at 
which the doctor, when he came, shook his head. But I 
did very well with the settee. It was brought near the 
window, with the table ; and 1 had a very pretty look-out. 
Opposite the window, you can see nothing but trees, but 
sitting on the left side, you have a view over a fine meadow 
to the village church, which is embowered in elms. There 
is a path and a stile to the meadow, and luxuriant hedge- 
row trees. I was as well pleased with my situation as a 
man well could be, who had a leg perpetually reminding 
him of its existence ; but Pouldon is at a good distance 
from town, and I was thinking how long it would take a 
messenger to fetch me some books, when I heard a shot 
from a fowling-piece. I recollected the month, and thought 
how well its name was adapted to these Septembrizers of 
the birds. Looking under the trees, I saw a stout fellow, 
in a jacket and gaiters, and the rest of the costume of «m- 
cide, picking his way along the palings, with his gun re- 
prepared. " Ay," said I, *' he has ' shot, as he is used to 
do,' and laid up some poor thing with a broken thigh. 
There he goes, sneaking along, to qualify some others for 
the hospital — and they have none.'''' 

I threw up the window, to baffle his next shot with the 
noise. He turned round. It was Jack Tomkins. *' Hallo ! 
my boy," said he ; " why, where in the world have you 
got ? " Jack, who is a man of fortune, and was at Trinity, 
though the uninitiated would not suppose it, came up im- 
mediately to the door, and knocked. Presently he came 
into the room, grinning and breathing like an ogre. 

" My dear Honeycomb," said he, " how are you ? An 
unexpected pleasure, eh ? The good lady tells me you 
have hurt yourself. Something about a horse. What, 
Bayardo the spotless, eh ? Well, I am heartily sorry for it, 
I declare ; for now, as you have caught me with my Joe 



22 A COUNTRY LODGING. 

Manton, I suppose I am to be had up for fetching down a 
few birds." 

" Why, Jack, as you say, I have caught you in the fact; 
and I wonder at a fellow of your sense and spirit, that 
you're not above cutting up a parcel of tomtits." 

'* Grouse, Harry, grouse, and partridges, and pheasants, 
and all that. Tomtits ! let the cockneys try to cut up tom- 
tits." 

" Well, to be sure, there's a good deal of difference be- 
tween breaking the legs of partridges and tomtits. The 
partridge, too, is a fierce bird, and can defend itself. It's 
a gallant thing, a fight with a partridge ! " 

*' Eh ? Nonsense. Now you are at some of your 
banter. But it's no joke, I assure you, to me, having a 
fine morning's sport. You can read, and all that; but 
every man to his taste. However, I can't stop at present. 
Here's Needle, poor fellow, wants to be off. Glorious 
morning — never saw such a morning — but I'll come back 
to dinner, if you like, instead of going to the Greyhound. 
I gave a brace of partridges just now to the good woman : 
and I say, Harry, if you get me some claret, I'll have it 
out with you — I will, upon my soul — I'll rub up my logic, 
and have a regular spar." 

My friend Jack returned in good time, and had his 
birds well dressed. I was in despair about the claret, till 
the host of the Greyhound drew it out from a store which 
he kept against the month of September ; and Jack being 
a good-humored fellow, and having had a victorious morn- 
ing, he did very well. Mrs. Wilson and the doctor had 
equally protested against my having company to dinner, 
being afraid of the noise, and the temptation to eat ; but I 
promised them to abstain, and that I would talk as much 
as possible to hinder Jack from being obstreperous ; which 
they thought a dangerous remedy. I got off very well, by 
dint of talking while Jack ate; and such is vanity, that I 
was not displeased to see that I rose greatly in my hostess's 



A COUNTRY LODGING. 23 

opinion by my defence of the bird creation. It was curi- 
ous to observe how Jack shattered her, as she came in 
and out, with his oaths and great voice, and how gratefully 
she seemed to take breath and substance again under the 
Paradisaical shelter of my arguments. But I believe I 
startled her, too, with the pictures I was obliged to draw. 
This is the worst of such points of discussion. You are 
obliged to put new ideas of pain and trouble into innocent 
heads, in the hope of saving pain and trouble itself. But 
we must not hesitate for this. The one is a mere notion 
compared with the other. It is soon got rid of or set aside 
by minds in health ; and the unhealthy ones are liable to 
worse deductions, if the matter is not fairly laid open. 

However, wishing to let Jack have his ease in perfec- 
tion, as far as he could, I was for postponing the argument 
to another day, and seeing him relish his birds and claret 
in peace. But the more he drank, the less he would heat 
of it. " Besides," says he, " I've been talking about it to 
Bilson — you know Bilson, the Christ-Church man, — and 
he's been putting me up to some prime good arguments, 
'faith. I hope I sha'n't forget 'em. By the by, I'll tell 
you a good joke about Bilson — But you don't eat any 
thing. What, is your leg so bad as that comes to 1 You 
don't pretend, I hope, not to eat partridge, because of your 
love of the birds?" 

" No, Jack ; but I'd rather know that you had killed 
'em than Bilson, because you are a jollier hand ; you don't 
go to the sport with such reverend sophistry." 

** That's famous. Bilson, to be sure, — But stop, don't 
let me forget another thing, now I think of it. Bilson 
says you eat poultry. What do you say to that ? You eat 
chicken. " 

" I am not sure that I can apologize for eating grouse, 
except, as I said before, when you kill 'em. Evil com- 
munications corrupt good platters. I can only say that no 
grouse should be killed for me, unless a perfect Tomkins 
— an unerring shot — had the bringing of them down. I 



24 . A COUNTRY LODGING. 

could give up poultry too ; but death is common to all : a 
fowl is soon despatched ; and many a fowl would not exist, 
if death for the dinner-table were not part of his charter. 
I confess I should not like to keep poultry. There is 
a violation of fellowship and domesticity in killing the 
sharers of our homestead, and especially in keeping them 
to kill. It would make me seem like an ogre. But this 
is one sentiment : that violated by making a sport of 
cruelty is another. But I will not argue this matter with 
you now, Jack. It would be a cruelty itself It would 
be inhospitable, and a foppery. I wish to put wine down 
your throat, and not to thrust my arguments. Besides, as 
you say, I never shall convince you ; so drink your claret." 

" Mighty considerate persons you Tatler and Spectator 
men are, and would make fine havoc with our amuse- 
ments." " Excuse me. It is you that make fine havoc. 
I would have you amuse yourself to your heart's content, 
if you would do it without breaking the bones and hearts 
of your fellow-creatures." "'Fellow creatvires!' and 
their ' hearts ! ' The hearts of woodcocks and partridges! 
Pooh, pooh ! What Bilson says is very true ; — he says, 
if you come to think of it, there must be pain in the world, 
and it would be unmanly to think of it in this light." 

" Very well. Then do you. Jack, who are so manly, 
and so willing to encourage one's sports, stand a little far- 
ther, and let me crack your shin with this poker." 

" Nonsense. That's a very different thing." 

" Perhaps you'd prefer a good crack on the skull ? " 

" Nonsense." 

«' Or a thrust out of your eye ? " 

" No, no : all that's very different." 

" Well : you know what you have been about this morn- 
ing. Go and pick your way again along the palings there ; 
and leave me your fowling-piece, and I'll endeavor to 
shoot you handsomely through the body." 

"Nonsense, nonsense. I'm a man, you know; and a 
bird's a bird. Besides, birds don't feel as we do. They're 



A COUNTRY LODGING. 25 

not Christians. They are not reasoning beings. They're 
not made of the same sort of stuff. In short, it's no use 
talking. There's no end of these things." 

" Just so. This is precisely the way I should argue, if 
I had the winging of you. Here, I should say, is Mr. 
John Tomkins. Mind, I am standing with my manning- 
piece by a hedge." 

"With your what? " 

" With my manning-piece. You cannot say fowling- 
piece, when it is men that are to be brought down." 

" Oh, now you're joking." 

'* I beg your pardon ; you will find it no joke presently. 

* Here,' says I, ' is Mr. John Tomkins coming i ' or, * Here 
is a Tomkins. Look at him. He's in fine coat and waist- 
coat (we can't say feather, you know) : keep close : now 
for my Joe Manton : you shall see how I'll pepper him.' 

* Pray don't,' says my companion. ' A Tomkins is a 
Tomkins after all, and has his feelings as we have.' 

* Stuff! ' says I : ' Tomkinses don't feel as we do. They're 
not Christiaas, for they do not do as they would be done 
by. They're not reasoning beings, for they do not see that 
a leg's a leg. They're not made of the same sort of stuff; 
and so, if they bleed, it does not signify; — if they die of a 
torturing fracture, who cares 1 In short, it's no use talk- 
ing. There's no end of these things. So here goes. 
Now, if I hit him, he is killed outright, which is no harm 
to any body ; and if I wound him, why, he only goes 
groaning and writhing for three or four days; and who 
cares for that 1 ' " 

" Upon my soul, if I listen, you'll make a milk-sop of 
me. Consider — think of the advantages of fresh air and 
exercise ; of getting up in the morning, and scouring the 
country, and all that." 

" Excellent : but, my dear Tomkins, the birds are not 
bound to suffer, because you want fresh air." 

" But it's the only time of the year, perhaps, that I can 
3 



Xb A COUNTRY LODGING. 

get out; and I must have something to do — something to 
occupy me and lead me about." 

" The birds, Tomkins, are not bound to have their legs 
and thighs broken, because you are in want of something 
to lead you about." 

" Well, you know what I mean. I meant that we must 
not look too nicely into these things, as somebody said 
about fish ; or we should fret ourselves for nothing. The 
birds kill one another." 

" Yes, from necessity ; for the want of a meal. But 
they do not torture — or, if they did, that would be because 
they did not reason as well as you and I, Tomkins." 

" What I meant to say is, that there's pain in the world 
already ; we cannot help it ; and if we can turn it to 
pleasure, so much the better. This is manly, I think." 

" Well said, indeed. But to turn pain into pleasure, and 
to add to it by more pain, are two different things, are 
they not? To bear pain like a man, and to inflict it like 
a sportsman, are two different things." 

" A sportsman can bear pain as well as any body." 

" Then why does he not begin by turning his own pain 
into a pleasure ? As it is, he turns his own pleasure to 
another's pain. Why does he not begin with himself? " 

"How with himself?" 

" Why, you talk of the want of amusement and excite- 
ment. Now, to say nothing of cricket, and golf, and boat- 
ing, and other sports, are there no such things to be had as 
quarter-staves, single-stick, and broken heads? A good 
handsome pain there is a gallant thing, and strengthens 
the soul as well as the body. If there must be a certain 
portion of pain in the world, these were the ways to share it. 
But to sneak about, safe one's-self, Avith a gun and a dog, 
and inflict all sorts of wounds and torments upon a parcel 
of little helpless birds, — Tomkins, you know not what 
you are at, when you do it ; or you are too much of a man 
to go on." 



A COUNTRY LODGING. 27 

" I cannot think that we inflict those tortures you 
speak of." 

" How many birds do you tvound instead of kill ? Say, 
upon an average, twenty to one, which is a generous com- 
putation. How many hundred birds would this make in 
the course of the day ? How many thousands in the 
course of a season ? To bring them down, and then be 
obliged to kill them, is butcherly enough; but to lame, 
and dislocate, and shatter the joints and bodies of so many 
that fly off", and leave them to die a lingering death in their 
agony, — I think it would not be unworthy of some philoso- 
phers and teachers, if they were to think a little of all this 
as they go, and not talk of the 'sport' and the 'amuse- 
ment ' like others ; as if men were to be trained up at 
once into thought and want of thought, into humanity and 
cruelty. Really, men are not the only creatures in exist- 
ence ; and the laugh of mutual complacency and approba- 
tion is apt to contain very sorry and shallow things, even 
among the ' celebrated ' and ' highly respectable.' I don't 
speak of you, Jack, but of those who make a profession of 
thinking, which, you know, you are not under the neces- 
sity of doing. But what's the matter ? " 

" Oh ! " said he, " oh ! " pressing his hand upon his 
cheek, "I've got a terrible toothache come upon me. Oh! 
Of all pains, the toothache is the most horrible. I've no 
patience with it." 

" I'll shut the door. There — now never mind the tooth- 
ache, for I'll bear it capitally." 

" You bear it ! That's a good one. Very easy for you 
to bear it; but how can I ? Hm ! hm ! (writhing about) 
it's the most intolerable pain." 

" Stay — here's some oil of cloves Mrs. Wilson has 
brought you. How does it feel now 1 " 

" Wonderfully. The pain is quite gone. It was very 
bad, I assure you. You must not think I am wanting in 
proper courage as a man, because it hurt me so You 



28 A COtNTRT LODGING. 

know, Harry, I can be as bold as most men, though I say 
it, who shouldn't." 

" My dear Jack, you have as much right to speak the 
truth as I have. The boldest of men is not expected to 
be without feeling. An officer may go bravely into battle, 
and bear it bravely too, but he must feel it: he cannot be 
insensible to a shattered knee," 

" Certainly not." 

*' Or to a jaw blown away." 

*' By no means." 

*' Or four of his ribs jammed in." 

''Horrible!" 

" Or a face mashed, and his nose forced in." 

'* Don't speak of it ! " 

'* Or his two legs taken off by a cannon ball, he being 
left to fester to death on a winter's night on a large plain." 

" Upon my soul, you make my flesh creep on my bones." 

" A gallant spirit is not bound to feel all this, or even to 
hear of it, without shuddering, even though the battle may 
be necessary, and a great good produced by it to society." 

" Certainly, certainly, God knows." 

" It is only a woodcock or a snipe that ought to bear it 
without complaining. Your partridge is the only piece of 
flesh and blood that we may put into such a state for no 
necessity, but purely for our sport and pleasure." 

" How ? What's that you say ? " 

" I say it is none but birds that we may, with a perfect 
conscience, lame, lacerate, mash, and blow their legs and 
beaks away, and leave, God knows where, to perish of 
neglect and torture, they being the only masculine crea- 
tures living, and not to be lowered into comparison with 
soldiers and gallant men." 

" Hey ?— Why, as to that— Hey ? What ? 'Fore George, 
you bewilder me with your list of tortures. But how am 
I to be sure that a bird feels as you say 1 " 

" It is enough that you know nothing certain. As you 



A COUNTRY LODGING. 29 

are not sure, you have no right to hazard the injustice, 
especially as you cannot help being sure of one thing ; 
which is, that birds have flesh and blood like ourselves, 
and that they afford similar evidences of feeling and suf- 
fering. Allow me to read you a passage that I cut, the 
other day, out of an old review. It is taken from Fother- 
gill's Essay on the Philosophy, Study and Use of Natural 
History ; a book which I shall make acquaintance with as 
soon as I can. Here it is. 

" ' It may perhaps be said, that a discourse on the iniquity and 
evil consequences of murder would come with a bad grace from 
one Avho was himself a murderer : and so it would ; but not if it 
came from the lips of a repentant murderer. Who can describe 
that which he has not seen, or give utterance to that which 
he has not felt? Never shall I forget the remembrance of 
a little incident which occurred to me during my boyish 
days — an incident which many will deem trifling and unim- 
portant, but which has been particularly interesting to my 
heart, as giving origin to sentiments, and rules of action, which 
have since been very dear to me. — Besides a singular elegance 
of form and beauty of plumage, the eye of the common lap- 
wing is peculiarly soft and expressive : it is large, black, and 
full of lustre, rolling, as it seems to do, in liquid gems of dew. 
I had shot a bird of this beautiful species ; but, on taking it up, 
I found that it was not dead. I had wounded its breast ; and 
some big drops of blood stained the pure whiteness of its 
feathers. As I held the hapless bird in my hand, hundreds of 
its companions hovered around my head, uttering continued 
shrieks of distress, and, by their plaintive cries, appeared to be- 
moan the fate of one to whom they were connected by ties of 
the most tender and interesting nature ; whilst the poor wound- 
ed bird continually moaned, with a kind of inward, wailing note, 
expressive of the keenest anguish ; and, ever and anon, it raised 
its drooping head, and, turning towards the wound in its breast, 
touched it with its bill, and then looked up in my face, with an 
expression that I have no wish to forget, for it had power to 
touch my heart, whilst yet a boy, when a thousand dry precepts 
in the academical closet would have been of no avail.' " 
3* 



80 A COUNTRY LODGING. 

" Well^ now, Harry, that's touching. He's right about 
the precepts. You have saved 'em from being dry, eh, 
with your claret? but all that you have said hasn't touched 
me like that story. A lapwing ! Hang me if I shall have 
the heart to touch another lapwing." 

*' But other birds. Jack, have feelings as well as lap- 
wings." 

" What do you say, though, about Providence ? Bilson 
said some famous things about Providence. What do you 
say to that ? " 

" Oh ho ! What, he 

* Admits, and leaves them Providence s care' — 

does he ? — You remember the passage, Jack, in Pope — 

God cannot love (cries Blunt with tearless eyes) 
The wretch he starves ; and piously denies. 
The humbler bishop, with a meeker air, 
Admits, and leaves them, Providence's care.' 

But we are Providence, Jack. Nay, don't start : I mean 
that our own feelings, our own regulated feelings and in- 
structed benevolence, are a part of the general action of 
Providence, a consequence and furtherance of the Divine 
Spirit. You see I can preach as well as Bilson. Human- 
ity is the most visible putting forth of the Deity's hand ; 
the noblest tool it works with. Or, if this theology doesn't 
serve, recollect the fable of Jupiter and the Wagoner. Are 
we content with abstract references to Providence, when we 
can work out any good for ourselves, or save ourselves from 
any evil? Did Bilson wait for Providence to induct him 
to his living ? Did he not make a good stir about it him- 
self? Push him into a ditch the next time you meet him, 
and see if he will not bustle to get out of it. Leave him 
to get out by himself, and see if he does not think you a 
hard-hearted fellow. Wing him, Jack, wing him; and 
see if he'll apply to Providence or a surgeon." 



AHMED THE COBBLER. 31 

" Eh ? That would be famous. I say — I must be go- 
ing though : it's getting dark, and I must be in town by 
nine. Well, Harry, my boy, good bye. I can't say you've 
convinced me : you know I told you I wasn't to be con- 
vinced ; but I plainly confess I don't like the story of 
the lapwing : it makes the bird look like a sort of human 
creature ; and that's not to be resisted. So I'm taken in 
about lapwings. Adieu." 

*' Well, Jack, you shall say that in print, and perhaps do 
more good than you are aware. Have you any objection 1 " 

" Not T, 'faith; I'd say it any where, if it came into my 
head. But how? In the Sporting Magazine?" 

" Why, I'm afraid we can hardly attain to such eminence 
as that, especially on such a subject." 

" I was thinking so. Oh, I see : — you'll pull your hive 
about my ears. Well, so be it. Adieu, Harry ; I'll send 
you the books." 

New Monthly Magazine. 



AHMED THE COBBLER. 

In the great city of Isfahan lived Ahmed the cobbler, 
an honest and industrious man, whose wish was to pass 
through life quietly ; and he might have done so, had he 
not married a handsome wife, who, although she had con- 
descended to accept of him as a husband, was far from 
being contented with his humble sphere of life. 

Sittara — such was the name of Ahmed's wife — was ever 
forming foolish schemes of riches and grandeur ; and 
though Ahmed never encouraged them, he was too fond a 
husband to quarrel with what gave her pleasure: an in- 
credulous smile, or a shake of the head, was his only 
answer to her often-told day-dreams ; and she continued 
to persuade herself, that she was certainly destined to 
great fortune. 



32 AHMED THE COBBLER. 

It happened one evening, while in this temper of mind, 
that she went to the Hemmam,* where she saw a lady re- 
tiring dressed in a magnificent robe, covered with jewels, 
and surrounded by slaves. This was the very condition 
Sittara had always longed for; and she eagerly inquired 
the name of the happy person who had so many attend- 
ants and such fine jewels. She learned it was the wife of 
the chief astrologer to the king. With this information 
she returned home. Her husband met her at the door, 
but was received with a frown ; nor could all his caresses 
obtain a smile or a word ; for several hours she continued 
silent, and in apparent misery ; at length she said — 

" Cease your caresses ; unless you are ready to give me 
a proof that you do really and sincerely love me." 

"What proof of love," exclaimed poor Ahmed, "can 
you desire, which I will not give? " 

" Give over cobbling : it is a vile, low trade, and never 
yields more than ten or twelve dinars a day. Turn astrolo- 
ger ; your fortune will be made, and I shall have all I wish, 
and be happy." 

" Astrologer ! " cried Ahmed ; ** astrologer ! Have you 
forgotten who I am — a cobbler, without any learning — 
that you want me to engage in a profession which requires 
so much skill and knowledge ? " 

" I neither think nor care about your qualifications," 
said the enraged wife : " all I know is, that if you do not 
turn astrologer immediately, I will be divorced from you 
to-morrow." 

The cobbler remonstrated, but in vain. The figure of 
the astrologer's wife, with her jewels and her slaves, had 
taken complete possession of Sittara's imagination. All 
night it haunted her ; she dreamt of nothing else ; and, on 
awakening, declared she would leave the house, if her hus- 
band did not comply with her wishes. What could poor Ah- 
med do ? He was no astrologer ; but he was dotingly fond 

* The public bath. 



AHMED THE COBBLER. 33 

of his wife, and he could not bear the idea of losing her. 
He promised to obey ; and, having sold his little stock, 
bought an astrolabe, an astronomical almanac, and a table 
of the twelve signs of the zodiac. Furnished with these, 
he went to the market-place, crying, " I am an astrologer ! 
I know the sun, and the moon, and the stars, and the 
twelve signs of the zodiac ; I can calculate nativities ; I 
can foretell every thing that is to happen ! " 

No man was better known than Ahmed the cobbler. 
A crowd soon gathered round him. " What, friend Ah- 
med," said one, " have you worked till your head is turn- 
ed 1 " " Are you tired of looking down at your last," cried 
another, "that you are now looking up at the planets?" 
These, and a thousand other jokes, assailed the ears of the 
poor cobbler, who, notwithstanding, continued to exclaim 
that he was an astrologer, having resolved on doing wha* 
he could to please his beautiful wife. 

It so happened, that the king's jeweller was passing by 
He was in great distress, having lost the richest ruby be- 
longing to the crown. Every search had been made to 
recover this inestimable jewel, but to no purpose ; and as 
the jeweller knew he could no longer conceal its loss from 
the king, he looked forward to death as inevitable. In this 
hopeless state, while wandering about the town, he reach- 
ed the crowd around Ahmed, and asked what was the 
matter. "Don't you know Ahmed the cobbler?" said 
one of the bystanders, laughing ; " he has been inspired, 
and is become an astrologer." 

A drowning man will catch at a broken reed. The jew- 
eller no sooner heard the sound of the word astrologer, 
than he went up to Ahmed, told him what had happened, 
and said, " If you understand your art, you must be able 
to discover the king's ruby. Do so, and I will give you 
two hundred pieces of gold. But if you do not succeed 
within six hours, I will use all my influence at court to 
have you put to death as an impostor." 

Poor Ahmed was thunderstruck. He stood long with- 



34 AHMED THE COBBLER. 

out being able to move or speak, reflecting on his misfor- 
tunes, and grieving, above all, that his wife, whom he so 
loved, had, by her envy and selfishness, brought him to 
such a fearful alternative. Full of these sad thoughts, he 
exclaimed aloud, " Oh, woman, woman ! thou art more 
baneful to the happiness of man than the poisonous drag- 
on of the desert ! " 

The lost ruby had been secreted by the jeweller's wife, 
who, disquieted by those alarms which ever attend guilt, 
sent one of her female slaves to watch her husband. This 
slave, on seeing her master speak to the astrologer, drew 
near; and when she heard Ahmed, after some moments 
of apparent abstraction, compare a woman to a poisonous 
dragon, she was satisfied he must know every thing. She 
ran to her mistress, and, breathless with fear, cried, '* You 
are discovered, my dear mistress ; you are discovered by a 
vile astrologer. Before six hours are past, the whole story 
will be known, and you will become infamous, if you are 
so fortunate as to escape with life, unless you can find 
some way of prevailing on him to be merciful." She then 
related what she had seen and heard ; and Ahmed's ex- 
clamation carried as complete conviction to the mind of 
the terrified mistress as it had done to that of her slave. 

The jeweller's wife, hastily throwing on her veil, went 
in search of the dreaded astrologer. When she found 
him, she threw herself at his feet, crying, " Spare my 
honor and my life, and I will confess every thing." 

" What can you have to confess to me ? " exclaimed 
Ahmed, in amazement. 

" O nothing, nothing with which you are not already 
acquainted. You know too well that I stole the ruby from 
the king's crown. I did so to punish my husband, who 
uses me most cruelly ; and I thought by this means to ob- 
tain riches for myself, and to have him put to death. But 
you, most wonderful man, from whom nothing is hidden, 
have discovered and defeated my wicked plan. I beg only 
for mercy, and will do whatever you command me." 



AHMED THE COBBLER. 35 

An angel from heaven could not have brought more 
consolation to Ahmed than did the jeweller's wife. He 
assumed all the dignified solemnity that became his new 
character, and said, " Woman, I know all that thou hast 
done; and it is fortunate for thee that thou hast come to 
confess thy sin, and beg for mercy before it was too late. 
Return to thy house, put the ruby under the pillow of the 
couch on which thy husband sleeps ; let it be laid on the 
side farthest from the door ; and be satisfied thy guilt shall 
never be even suspected." 

The jeweller's wife returned home, and did as she was 
desired. In an hour Ahmed followed her, and told the 
jeweller he had made his calculations, and found, by the 
aspect of the sun and moon, and by the configuration of 
the stars, that the ruby was at that moment lying under 
the pillow of his couch, on the side farthest from the door. 
The jeweller thought Ahmed must be crazy ; but as a ray 
of hope is like a ray from heaven to the wretched, he ran 
to his couch, and there, to his joy and wonder, found the 
ruby in the very place described. He came back to Ah- 
med, embraced him, called him his dearest friend and the 
preserver of his life, gave him the two hundred pieces of 
gold, declaring that he was the first astrologer of the age. , 

These praises conveyed no joy to the poor cobbler, who 
returned home more thankful to God for his preservation 
than elated by his good fortune. The moment he entered 
the door, his wife ran up to him, and exclaimed, " Well, 
my dear astrologer, what success?" 

"There!" said Ahmed, very gravely, "there are two 
hundred pieces of gold : I hope you will be satisfied now, 
and not ask me again to hazard my life, as I have done this 
morning." He then related all that had passed. But the 
recital made a very different impression on the lady from 
what these occurrences had made on Ahmed. Sittara 
saw nothing but the gold which would enable her to vie 
with the chief astrologer's wife at the Hemmam. " Cour- 



36 AHMED THE COBBLER. 

age ! " said she, " courage, my clearest husband. This is 
onJy your first labor in your new and noble profession. Go 
on and prosper ; and Vv^e shall become rich and happy." 

In vain Ahmed remonstrated, and represented the dan- 
ger : she burst into tears, and accused him of not loving 
her, ending with her usual threat of insisting upon a di- 
vorce. 

Ahmed's heart melted, and he agreed to make another 
trial. Accordingly, next morning, he sallied forth with his 
astrolabe, his twelve signs of the zodiac, and his almanac, 
exclaiming, as before, " I am an astrologer! I know the 
sun, and the moon, and the stars, and the twelve signs of 
the zodiac ; I can calculate nativities ; I can foretell every 
thing that is to happen ! " A crowd again gathered round 
him ; but it was now witli wonder, and not ridicule ; for 
the story of the ruby had gone abroad, and the voice 
of fame had converted the poor cobbler Ahmed into the 
ablest and most learned astrologer that was ever seen at 
Isfahan. 

While every body was gazing at him, a lady passed by 
veiled. She was the wife of one of the richest merchants 
in the city, and had just been at the Hemmam, where she 
had lost a valuable necklace and ear-rings. She was now 
returning home in great alarm, lest her husband should 
suspect her of having given her jewels to a lover. Seeing 
the crowd around Ahmed, she asked the reason of their 
assembling, and was informed of the whole story of the 
famous astrologer ; how he had been a cobbler, was in- 
spired with supernatural knowledge, and could, with the 
help of his astrolabe, his twelve signs of the zodiac, and his 
almanac, discover all that ever had, or ever would happen 
in the world. The story of the jeweller and the king's 
•ruby was then told her, accompanied by a thousand won- 
derful circumstances which had never occurred. The lady, 
quite satisfied of his skill, went up to Ahmed, and men- 
tioned her loss, saying, " A man of your knowledge and 



AHMED THE COBBLER. 37 

penetration will easily discover my jewels : find them, and 
[ will give you fifty pieces of gold." 

The poor cobbler was quite confounded, and looked 
down, thinking only how to escape without a public expo- 
sure of his ignorance. The lady, in passing through the 
crowd, had torn the lower part of her veil. Ahmed's down- 
cast eyes noticed this, and, wishing to inform her of it in a 
delicate manner, before it was observed by others, he whis- 
pered to her, " Lady, look down at the rent." The lady's 
head was full of her loss, and she was at that moment 
endeavoring to recollect how it could have occurred. Ah- 
med's speech brought it at once to her mind, and she ex- 
claimed in delighted surprise, *' Stay here a few moments, 
thou great astrologer. I will return immediately with the 
reward thou so well deservest." Saying this, she left him, 
and soon returned, carrying in one hand the necklace and 
earrings, and in the other a purse with fifty pieces of gold. 
" There is gold for thee," she said, " thou wonderful 
man, to whom all the secrets of nature are revealed. I 
had quite forgotten where I laid the jewels, and without 
thee should never have found them. But when thou de- 
siredst me to look at the rent below, I instantly recollected 
the rent near the bottom of the wall in the bath-room, 
where, before undressing, I had hid them, I can now go 
home in peace and comfort ; and it is all owing to thee, 
thou wisest of men." 

After these words, she walked away, and Ahmed return- 
ed to his home, thankful to Providence for his preservation, 
and fully resolved never again to tempt it. His handsome 
wife, how^ever, could not yet rival the chief astrologer's 
lady in her appearance at the Hemmam ; so she renewed 
her entreaties and threats to make her fond husband con- 
tinue his career as an astrologer. 

About this time, it happened that the king's treasury was 
robbed of forty chests of gold and jewels, forming the 
greater part of the wealth of the kingdom. The high- 
4 



t38 AHMED THE COBBLEK. 

treasurer and other officers of state used all diligence to 
find the thieves, but in vain. The king sent for his astrolo- 
ger, and declared, that if the robbers were not detected by 
a stated time, he, as well as the principal ministers, should 
be put to death. Only one day of the short period given 
them remained. All their search had proved fruitless, and 
the chief astrologer, who had made his calculations and 
exhausted his art to no purpose, had resigned himself to 
his fate, when one of his friends advised him to send for 
the wonderful cobbler, who had become so famous for his 
extraordinary discoveries. Two slaves were immediately 
despatched for Ahmed, whom they commanded to go with 
them to their master. " You see the effects of your ambi- 
tion," said the poor cobbler to his wife ; " I am going to 
my death. The king's astrologer has heard of my pre- 
sumption, and is determined to have me executed as an 
impostor." 

On entering the palace of the chief astrologer, he was 
surprised to see that dignified person come forward to re- 
ceive him, and lead him to the seat of honor, and not less so 
to hear himself thus addressed : — " The ways of Heaven, 
most learned and excellent Ahmed, are unsearchable. 
The high are often cast down, and the low are lifted up. 
The whole world depends upon fiite and fortune. It is my 
turn now to be depressed by fate ; it is thine to be exalted 
by fortune." 

His speech was here interrupted by a messenger from 
the king, who, having heard of the cobbler's fame, de- 
sired his attendance. Poor Ahmed now concluded that it 
was all over with him, and followed the king's messenger, 
praying to God that he would deliver him from his peril. 
When he came into the king's presence, he bent his body 
to the ground, and wished his majesty long life and pros- 
perity. " Tell me, Ahmed," said the king, " who has 
stolen my treasure." 

'* It was not one man," answered Ahmed, after some 



AHMED THE COBBLER. 39 

consideration: " tliere were forty thieves concerned in the 
robbery." 

" Very well," said the king ; " but who were they ? and 
what have they done with my gold and jewels ? " 

" These questions," said Ahmed, "1 cannot now answer, 
but I hope to satisfy your majesty, if you will grant me forty 
days to make my calculations." 

" I grant you forty days," said the king ; " but when 
they are past, if my treasure is not found, your life shall 
pay the forfeit." 

Ahmed returned to his house well pleased; for he re- 
solved to take advantage of the time allowed him, to fly 
from a city where his fame was likely to be his ruin. 
•' Well, Ahmed," said his wife, as he entered the house, 
"what news at court? " 

" No news at all," said he, " except that I am to be put 
to death at the end of forty days, unless I find forty chests 
of gold and jewels, which have been stolen from the royal 
treasury." 

" But you will discover the thieves." 

** How ? By what means am I to find them ? " 

'' By the same art which discovered the ruby and the 
lady's necklace." 

" The same art !" replied Ahmed. "Foolish woman! 
Thou knowest that I have no art, and that I have only pre- 
tended to it for the sake of pleasing thee. But I have had 
sufficient skill to gain forty days, during which time we 
may easily escape to some other city; and, with the money 
I now possess, and the aid of my former occupation, we 
may still obtain an honest livelihood." 

" An honest livelihood ! " repeated his lady with scorn. 
" Will thy cobbling, thou mean, spiritless wretch ! ever 
enable me to go to the Hemmam like the wife of the chief 
astrologer ? Hear me, Ahmed : think only of discovering 
the king's treasure. Thou hast just as good a chance of 
doing so as thou hadst of finding the ruby, and the neck- 



40 AHMED THE COBBLER. 

lace and earrings. At all events, I am determined that 
thou shalt not escape ; and shouldst thou attempt to run 
away, I will inform the king's officers, and have thee taken 
up, and put to death, even before the forty days are expir- 
ed. Thou knovvest me too well, Ahmed, to doubt my keep- 
ing my word. So take courage, and endeavor to make 
thy fortune, and to place me in that rank of life to which 
my beauty entitles me." 

The poor cobbler was dismayed at this speech; but, 
knowing there was no hope of changing his wife's reso- 
lution, he resigned himself to his fate. " Well," said 
he, " your will shall be obeyed. All 1 desire is to pass the 
few remaining days of my life as comfortably as I can. 
You know I am no scholar, and have little skill in reckon- 
ing; so there are forty dates: give me one of them every 
night after I have said my prayers, that I may put them in 
a jar, and, by counting them, may always see how many of 
the few days I have to live are gone." 

The lady, pleased at carrying her point, took the dates, 
and promised to be punctual in doing what her husband 
desired. 

Meanwhile, the thieves, who had stolen the king's treas- 
ure, having been kept from leaving the city by fear of de- 
tection and pursuit, had received accurate information of 
every measure taken to discover them. One of them was 
among the crowd before the palace on the day the king 
sent for Ahmed ; and, hearing that the cobbler had imme- 
diately declared their exact number, he ran in a fright to 
his comrades, and exclaimed, " We are all found out ! Ah- 
med, the new astrologer, has told the king that there are 
forty of us." 

'' There needed no astrologer to tell that," said the cap- 
tain of the gang. " This Ahmed, with all his simple good 
nature, is a shrewd fellow. Forty chests having been sto- 
len, he naturally guessed that there must be forty thieves; 
and he has made a good hit; that is all : still, it is prudent 



AHMED THE COBBLER. 41 

to watch him; for he certainly has made some strange dis- 
coveries. One of us must go to-night, after dark, to the 
terrace of this cobbler's house, and listen to his conversa- 
tion with his handsome wife ; for he is said to be very fond 
of her, and will, no doubt, tell her what success he has 
had in his endeavors to detect us." 

Every body approved of this scheme ; and, soon after 
night-fall, one of the thieves repaired to the terrace. He 
arrived there just as the cobbler had finished his evening 
prayers, and his wife was giving him the first date. " Ah ! " 
said Ahmed, as he took it, " there is one of the forty." 

The thief, hearing these words, hastened, in consterna- 
tion, to the gang, and told them that, the moment he took 
his post, he had been perceived by the supernatural knowl- 
edge of Ahmed, who immediately told his wife that one of 
them was there. The spy's tale was not believed by his 
hardened companions : something was imputed to his fears: 
he might have been mistaken : in short, it was determined 
to send two men the next night at the same hour. They 
reached the house just as Ahmed, having finished his 
prayers, had received the second date, and heard him ex- 
claim, " My dear wife, to-night there are two of them." 

The astonished thieves fled, and told their still incredu- 
lous comrades what they had heard. Three men were 
consequently sent the third night, four the fourth, and so 
on. Being afraid of venturing during the day, they always 
came as evening closed in, and just as Ahmed was receiv- 
ing his date : hence they all in turn heard him say that 
which convinced them he was aware of their presence. 
On the last night, they all went; and Ahmed exclaimed 
aloud, " The number is complete. To-night, the whole 
forty are here." 

All doubts were now removed. It was impossible that 

Ahmed should have discovered them by any natural means. 

How could he ascertain their exact number ? and night 

after night, without ever once being mistaken 1 He must 

4* 



42 AHMED THE COBBLER. 

have learnt it by his skill in astrology. Even the captain 
now yielded, in spite of his incredulity, and declared his 
opinion that it was hopeless to elude a man thus gifted ; 
he therefore advised that they should make a friend of 
the cobbler, by confessing every thing to him, and bribing 
him to secrecy by a share of the booty. 

His advice was approved of; and, an hour before dawn, 
they knocked at Ahmed's door. The poor man jumped 
out of bed, and, supposing the soldiers were come to lead 
him to execution, cried out, " Have patience. I know 
what you are come for. It is a very unjust and wicked 
deed." 

" Most wonderful man," said the captain, as the door 
was opened, " we are fully convinced that thou knowest 
why we are come ; nor do we mean to justify the action of 
which thou speakest. Here are two thousand pieces of 
gold, which we will give thee, provided thou wilt swear to 
say nothing more about the matter." 

" Say nothing about it! " said Ahmed. " Do you think 
it possible I can suffer such gross wrong and injustice with- 
out complaining, and making it known to all the world?" 

" Have mercy upon us!" exclaimed the thieves, falling 
on their knees ; " only spare our lives, and we will restore 
the royal treasure." 

The cobbler started, rubbed his eyes, to see if he were 
asleep or awake ; and, being satisfied that he was awake, 
and that the men before him were really the thieves, he 
assumed a solemn tone, and said, '* Guilty men, ye are 
persuaded that ye cannot escape from my penetration, 
which reaches unto the sun and moon, and knows the 
position and aspect of every star in the heavens. Your 
timely repentance has saved you. But ye must immedi- 
ately restore all that ye have stolen. Go straightway, and 
carry the forty chests exactly as ye found them, and bury 
them a foot deep under the southern wall of the old Hem- 
mam, beyond the king's palace. If ye do this punctually, 



AHMED THE COBBLER. 43 

your lives are spared ; but if ye fail in the slightest de- 
gree, destruction will f\ill upon you and your families." 

The thieves promised obedience to his commands, and 
departed. Ahmed then fell on his knees, and returned 
thanks to God for this signal mark of his favor. About 
two hours after, the royal guards came, and desired Ah- 
med to follow them. He said he would attend them as 
soon as he had taken leave of his wife, to whom he deter- 
mined not to impart what had occurred until he saw the 
result. He bade her farewell very affectionately. She sup- 
ported herself with great fortitude on this trying occasion, 
exhorting her husband to be of good cheer, and said a few 
words about the goodness of Providence. But the fact 
was, Sittara fancied that if God took the worthy cobbler 
to himself, her beauty might attract some rich lover, who 
would enable her to go to the Hemmam with as much 
splendor as the astrologer's lady, whose image, adorned 
with jewels and fine clothes, and surrounded by slaves, 
still haunted her imagination. 

The decrees of Heaven are just : a reward suited to 
their merits awaited Ahmed and his wife. The good man 
stood with a cheerful countenance before the king, who 
was impatient for his arrival, and immediately said, " Ah- 
med, thy looks are promising: hast thou discovered my 
treasure ? " 

" Does your majesty require the thieves or the treasure? 
The stars will only grant one or the other," said Ahmed, 
looking at his table of astrological calculations. " Your 
majesty must make your choice. I can deliver up either, 
but not both." 

" I should be sorry not to punish the thieves," answered 
the king ; ** but, if it must be so, I choose the treasure." 

*' And you give the thieves a full and free pardon?" 

" I do, provided I find my treasure untouched." 

** Then," said Ahmed, " if your majesty will follow me, 
the treasure shall be restored to you." 



44 AHMED THE COBBLER. 

The king and all his nobles followed the cobbler to the 
ruins of the old Hemmam. There, casting his eyes to- 
ward heaven, Ahmed muttered some sounds, which were 
supposed, by the spectators, to be magical conjurations, but 
which were, in reality, the prayers and thanksgivings of a 
sincere and pious heart to God, for his wonderful deliver- 
ance. When his prayer was finished, he pointed to the 
southern wall, and requested that his majesty would order 
his attendants to dig there. The work was hardly begun, 
when the whole forty chests were found in the same state 
as when stolen, with the treasurer's seal upon them still 
unbroken. 

The king's joy knew no bounds : he embraced Ahmed, 
and immediately appointed him his chief astrologer, as- 
signed to him an apartment in the palace, and declared 
that he should marry* his only daughter, as it was his duty 
to promote the man whom God had so singularly favored, 
and had made instrumental in restoring the treasures of 
his kingdom. The young princess, who was more beauti- 
ful than the moon, was not dissatisfied with her father's 
choice ; for her mind was stored with religion and virtue, 
and she had learned to value beyond all earthly qualities 
that piety and learning which she believed Ahmed to pos- 
sess. The royal will was carried into execution as soon 
as formed. The wheel of fortune had taken a complete 
turn. The morning had found Ahmed in a wretched 
hovel, rising from a sorry bed, in the expectation of losing 
his life: in the evening, he was the lord of a rich palace, 
and married to the only daughter of a powerful king. 
But this change did not alter his character. As he had 
been meek and humble in adversity, he was modest and 
gentle in prosperity. Conscious of his own ignorance, he 



* It is very common in the East for the daughters of monarchs 
to be married to men eminent for their piety or learning, however 
low their origin. 



AHMED THE COBBLER. 45 

continued to ascribe his good fortune solely to the favor 
of Providence. He became daily more attached to the 
beautiful and virtuous princess whom he had married ; and 
he could not help contrasting her character with that of 
his former wife, whom he had ceased to love, and of whose 
unreasonable and unfeeling vanity he was now fully sen- 
sible. 

As Ahmed did not return to his house, Sittara only heard 
of his elevation from common rumor. She saw, with de- 
spair, that her wishes for his advancement had been more 
than accomplished, but that all her own desires had 
been entirely frustrated. Her husband was chief astrolo- 
ger — the very situation she had set her heart on : he was 
rich enough to enable his wife to surpass all the ladies of 
Isfahan in the number of her slaves, and the finery of 
her clothes and jewels, whenever she went to the Hem- 
mam ; but he had married a princess ; and his former 
wife, according to custom, was banished from his house, 
and condemned to live on whatever pittance she might re- 
ceive from a man whose love and esteem she had forever 
forfeited. These thoughts distracted her mind : her envy 
was excited by the accounts she daily heard of Ahmed's 
happiness, and of the beauty of the princess ; and she 
now became anxious only for his destruction, looking on 
him as the sole cause of her disappointment. 

An opportunity of indulging her revengeful feelings was 
not long wanting. The king of Seestan had sent an em- 
erald, of extraordinary size and brilliancy, as a present, to 
the king of Irak. It was carefully enclosed in a box, to 
which there were three keys ; and one of them was given 
in charge to each of the three confidential servants em- 
ployed to convey it. When they reached Isfahan, the box 
was opened, but the emerald was gone. Nothing could 
exceed their consternation: each accused the other: as 
the lock was not broken, it was evident one of them must 
be the thief. They consulted what was to be done. To 



46 AHMED THE COBBLER. 

conceal what had happened, was impossible : the very at- 
tempt would have brought death on them all. It was re- 
solved, therefore, to lay the whole matter before the king, 
and beg that by his great wisdom he would detect the cul- 
prit, and that he would show mercy to the other two. 

The king heard the story with astonishment, but was 
unable to find any clew by which he might ascertain the 
truth. He summoned his vizier and all the wisest men of 
his court ; but they were as much at a loss as their mas- 
ter. The report spread through the city ; and Sittara 
thouorht she had now the means of working her husband's 
ruin. She solicited a private audience of his majesty, on 
the plea of having a communication of importance to 
make. Her request was granted. On entering the royal 
presence, she threw herself at his feet, exclaiming, " Par- 
don, O king, my having so long concealed the guilt of 
my husband Ahmed, whose alliance is a disgrace to the 
royal blood. He is no astrologer, but an associate of 
thieves, and by that means only did he discover the royal 
treasure. If any doubts are entertained of my speaking 
the truth, let his majesty command Ahmed to recover the 
emerald which the servants of the king of Seestan have 
stolen. Surely the man, who, by his wonderful art, ascer- 
tained where all the treasure of the kingdom was conceal- 
ed, will find it an easy matter to discover a single precious 
stone." 

The king, who loved his son-in-law, was grieved by this 
information. Still, as the honor of his family was con- 
cerned, he resolved to put Ahmed to the test, and, if 
he found him an impostor, to vindicate the royal dignity 
by his condign punishment. He therefore sent for Ah- 
med, told him what had happened, and added, "I give 
you twenty days to discover who stole the emerald. If 
you succeed, you shall be raised to the highest honors 
of the state. If not, you shall suffer death for having de- 
ceived me." 



AHMED THE COBBLER. 47 

Poor Ahmed quitted the presence quite disconsolate. 
The princess, perceiving his affliction, inquired the cause. 
Ahmed was by nature as sincere as he was pious and hum- 
ble. He related, without concealment or disguise, every 
event of his past life, and concluded with these words : 
*' You must see, from what I have said, how incapable 
I am of doing what your father enjoins. My life must 
answer for it ; and my only consolation is, that I shall, in 
twenty days, relieve you from a husband whom, from this 
time, you must despise." 

" I only love you the better, my dear Ahmed, for your 
sincerity and truth," said the princess. " One who has 
been so favored by Heaven must be dear to every pious 
heart. Be of good cheer : I will turn astrologer this time, 
and see whether I can find out the thief. All that I 
require is, that you endeavor to be composed, while I con- 
sult the stars and make my calculations." 

Ahmed, delighted by this proof of affection, and re- 
assured by the confidence of her manner, promised to be 
obedient, and said he would only venture to assist her 
exertions by his earnest prayers to that Power which had 
never deserted him. 

The princess immediately invited the messengers from 
the king of Seestan to lier palace. They were surprised 
at the invitation, and still more at their reception. " You 
are strangers," she said to them, " and come from a pow- 
erful king. It ^ my wish to show you every attention. 
As to the lost emerald, think no more of it; it is a mere 
trifle. I will intercede with the king, my father, to give 
himself no further concern on the subject, being con- 
vinced that it has been lost by one of those strange acci- 
dents for which it is impossible to account." 

The princess entertained the strangers for several days, 
and during that time the emerald seemed to be forgotten. 
She conversed with them freely, inquiring particularly of 
Seestan, and the countries they had seen on their travels. 



48 AHMED THE COBBLER. 

Flattered by her condescension, they became confident of 
their safety, and were delighted with their royal patroness. 
The princess, seeing them completely off their guard, 
turned the conversation, one evening, on wonderful occur- 
rences, and, after each had related his story, said, " I will 
now recount to you some events in my own life, which 
you Avill, I think, deem more extraordinary than any you 
have ever heard, 

"I am my father's only child, and have therefore been a 
favorite from my birth. I was brought up in the belief 
that I could command whatever this world can afford, 
and was taught that unbounded liberality was the first and 
most princely of virtues. I early resolved to surpass every 
former example of generosity. I thought my power of 
doing good, and making every body happy, was as unlim- 
ited as my wish to do so ; and I could not conceive the 
existence of misery beyond my power to relieve. When 
[ was eighteen, I was betrothed to my cousin, a young 
prince, who excelled all others in beauty of person and 
nobleness of mind ; and I fancied myself at the summit 
of happiness. It chanced, however, that, on the morning 
of my nuptials, I went to walk in a garden near the pal- 
ace, where I had been accustomed to spend some hours 
daily from my childhood. The old gardener, with whose 
cheerfulness I had often been amused, met me. Seeing 
him look very miserable, I asked him what was the mat- 
ter. He evaded a direct answer ; but I insisted upon his 
disclosing the cause of his grief, declaring, at the same 
time, my determination to remove it." 

"'You cannot relieve me,' said the old man, with a 
deep sigh : * it is out of your power, my beloved prin- 
cess, to heal the wound of which I am dying.' 

" My pride was roused, and I exclaimed, 'I swear — ' 

"' Do not swear,' said the gardener, seizing my hand. 

*' * I do swear,' I repeated (irritated by the opposition). 
* I will stop at nothing to make you happy ; and I further 



AHMED THE COBBLER. 49 

swear, that I will not leave this spot until you reveal the 
grief which preys upon you.' 

" The old man, seeing my resolution, spoke with tremu- 
lous emotion as follows : ' Princess, you know not what 
you have done. Behold a man who has dared, for these 
two years, to look upon you with an eye of admiration : his 
love has at length reached such a pitch, that without you 
he must be wretched forever ; and unless you consent to 
meet him in the garden to-night, and become his bride in- 
stead of that of the prince, he must die.' 

" Shocked by this unforeseen declaration, and trembling 
at the thought of my oath, I tried to reason with the 
old gardener, and offered him all the wealth I possessed. 
' I told you,' he replied, ' beautiful princess, that you could 
not make me happy. I endeavored to prevent your rash 
vow ; and nothing but that should have drawn from me 
the secret of my heart. Death, I know, is my fate ; for I 
cannot live and see you the wife of another. Leave me 
to die. Go to your husband ; go to the enjoyment of your 
pomp and riches ; but never again pretend to the exercise 
of a power which depends upon a thousand circumstances 
that no human being can regulate or control.' 

" This speech conveyed a bitter reproach. I would 
have sacrificed my life a hundred times, sooner than 
stain my honor by marrying this man ; but I had made 
a vow in the face of Heaven, and to break it seemed sac- 
rilege. Besides, I earnestly wished to die undeceived in 
my favorite notion, that I could make all who came near 
me happy. Under the struggle of these different feelings, 
I told the gardener his desire should be granted, and that 
I would be in the garden an hour before midnight. After 
this assurance, I went away, resolved in my own mind not 
to outlive the disgrace to which I had doomed myself 

I passed the day in the deepest melancholy. A little 
before midnight, I contrived to dismiss my attendants, and, 
arrayed in my bridal apparel, which was covered with the 
5 



50 AHMED THE COBBLER. 

richebt jewels, I went towards the garden. I had not pro- 
ceeded many yards, when I was met by a thief, who, seiz- 
ing me, said, ' Let me strip you, madam, of these un- 
necessary ornaments : if you make the least noise, instant 
death awaits you.' In my state of mind, such threats 
frightened me little. I wished to die ; but I wished, before 
I died, to fulfil my vow. I told my story to the thief, be- 
seeching him to let me pass, and pledging my word to re- 
turn, that he might not be disappointed of his booty. Af- 
ter some hesitation, he allowed me to proceed. 

" I had not gone many steps, when I encountered a fu- 
rious lion, which had broken loose from my father's mena- 
gerie. Knowing the merciful nature of this animal tow- 
ards the weak and defenceless, I dropped on my knees, 
repeated my story, and assured him, if he would let me 
fulfil my vow, I would come back to him as ready to be 
destroyed as he could be to make me his prey. The lion 
stepped aside, and I went into the garden. 

" I found the old gardener all impatience for my arrival. 
He flew to meet me, exclaiming I was an angel. I told 
him I was resigned to my engagement, but had not long 
to live. He started, and asked what I meant. I gave him 
an account of my meeting with the thief and the lion. 
* Wretch that I am ! ' cried the gardener ; * how much 
misery have I caused ! But, bad as I am, I am not worse 
than a thief or a beast of prey ; which I should be, did I 
not absolve you from your vow, and assure you the only 
way in which you can now make me happy, is by forgiv- 
ing my wicked presumption.' 

" I was completely relieved by these v/ords, and granted 
the forgiveness desired ; but having determined, in spite 
of the gardener's remonstrances, to keep my promises to 
the thief and the lion, I refused to accept his protection. 
On leaving the garden, the lion met me. ' Noble lion,' I 
said, ' I am come, as I promised you.' I then related to 
him how the gardener had absolved me from my vow ; and 



AHMED THE COBBLER. 51 

I expressed a hope that the king of beasts would not belie 
his renown for generosity. The lion again stepped aside, 
and I proceeded to the thief, who was still standing where 
I left him. I told him I was now in his power, but that, 
before he stripped me, I must relate to him what had hap- 
pened since our last meeting. Having heard me, he turn- 
ed away, saying, ' I am not meaner than a poor gardener, 
nor more cruel than a hungry lion : I will not injure what 
they have respected.' 

" Delighted with my escapes, I returned to my father's 
palace, where I was united to my cousin, with whom I 
lived happily to his death ; persuaded, however, that the 
power of human beings to do good is very limited, and 
that, when they leave the narrow path marked out for them 
by their Maker, they not only lose their object, but often 
wander far into error and guilt, by attempting more than 
it is possible to perform." 

The princess paused, and was glad to see her guests so 
enchanted with her story, that it had banished every other 
thought from their minds. After a few moments, she turn- 
ed to one of them, and asked, " Now, which, think you, 
showed the greatest virtue in his forbearance — the gar- 
dener, the thief, or the lion 1 " 

" The gardener, assuredly," was his answer ; " to aban- 
don so lovely a prize, when so nearly his own." 

"And what is your opinion?" said the princess to his 
neighbor. 

" I think the lion was the most generous: be must have 
been very hungry ; and, in such a state, it was great for- 
bearance to abstain from devouring so delicate a morsel." 

" You both seem to me quite wrong," said the third, 
impatiently ; *' the thief had by far the most merit. Gra- 
cious heavens ! to have within his grasp such wealth, and 
to refrain from taking it! I could not have believed it 
possible, unless the princess herself had assured us of 
the fact." 



52 AHMED THE COBBLER. 

The princess, now, assuming an air of dignity, said to 
the first who spoke, " You, I perceive, are an admirer of 
the ladies;" to the second, '* You are an epicure;" and 
then, turning to the third, who was already pale with fright, 
" You, my friend, have the emerald in your possession. 
You have betrayed yourself, and nothing but an immedi- 
ate confession can save your life." 

The guilty man's countenance removed all doubt ; and 
when the princess renewed her assurances of safety, he 
threw himself at her feet, acknowledged his offence, and 
gave her the emerald, which he carried concealed about 
him. The princess rose, went to her husband, and said, 
" There, Ahmed, what do you think of the success of my 
calculations?" She then related the whole circumstance, 
and bade him carry the jewel to her father, adding, " I 
trust he will feel a greater admiration than ever for my 
husband, the wonderful astrologer ! " 

Ahmed took the emerald in silent astonishment, and 
went with it to the king, of whom he requested a private 
audience. On its being granted, he presented the emer- 
ald. The king, dazzled by its brilliancy and size, loaded 
his son-in-law with the most extravagant praises, extolling 
him as superior to any astrologer who had ever been seen 
in the world. Poor Ahmed, conscious how little he de- 
served such praise, threw himself at the king's feet, and 
begged that he might be allowed to speak the truth, as he 
was readier to die than to continue imposing on his majes- 
ty's goodness. " You impose on me ! " said the king; " that 
is im.possible. Did you not recover my treasure 1 Have 
you not brought me this emerald?" 

" True, O king ! " said Ahmed ; *' I have done so, but 
without possessing that science for which I have gained a 
reputation." He then told his history from first to last 
with perfect sincerity. The king showed great displeas- 
ure while listening to his earlier adventures; but when 
Ahmed related the story of the emerald, intermingling his 



AHMED THE COBBLER. 53 

tale with fervent expressions of admiration for the wonder- 
ful wisdom and virtue of the princess, he heard him with 
delicrht. After he had finished, the kinix summoned his 
vizier and chief counsellors, and desired that his daughter 
also might attend ; and v/hen they were all assembled, he 
spake as follows: " Daughter, I have learnt the history of 
thy husband from his own lips. I have also heard much 
in confirmation of the belief 1 have long entertained, 
that thy knowledge and goodness are even greater than 
thy beauty. They prove that tiiou wert born to rule ; and 
I only obey the will of Heaven, and consult the happi- 
ness of my people, when I resign my power into thy hands, 
being resolved to seek that repose which my declining 
years require. As to thy husband, thou wilt dispose of 
him as it pleases thee. His birth, I always knew, was 
low ; but I thought that his wisdom and learning raised 
him to a level with the highest rank : these, it now appears, 
he does not possess. If thou deemest his alliance a dis- 
grace, divorce him. If, on the other hand, thou art will- 
ing to keep him as thy husband, do so, and give him such 
share as thou thinkest fit in the authority which I now 
commit to thee." 

The princess knelt to kiss her father's hand, and an- 
swered, ** May my father's life and reign be prolonged for 
his daughter's happiness, and for that of his subjects ! I 
am a weak woman, altogether unequal to the task which 
his too fond love would impose on me. If my humble 
counsel is listened to, my father will continue to govern 
his people, whose gratitude and veneration will make obe- 
dience light, and rule easy. As to Ahmed, I love and 
esteem him : he is sensible, sincere, and pious ; and 1 deem 
myself fortunate in having for my husband a man so pe- 
culiarly favored and protected by Heaven. What, my dear 
father, are high rank or brilliant talents without religion 
and virtue? They are as plants which bear gaudy blos- 
soms, but yield no fruit." 
5* 



54 ROUGE ET NOIR. 

The king was delighted with his daughter's wisdom and 
affection. '* Your advice," he said, " my beloved daughter, 
shall be followed. I will continue to govern my kingdom, 
while you and Ahmed shall assist me with your counsels." 

The good cobbler was soon afterwards nominated 
vizier ; and the same virtue and piety which had obtain- 
ed hitn respect in the humblest sphere of life, caused him 
to be loved and esteemed in the high station to which he 
was elevated. 

The designs of Sittara were discovered, but her guilt 
was pardoned. She was left with a mere subsistence, a 
prey to disappointment ; for she continued to the last to 
sigh for that splendor she had seen displayed by the chief 
astrologer's wife at the Hemmam; thereby affording a 
salutary lesson to those who admit envy into their bosoms, 
and endeavor to attain their ends by unreasonable and 
unjustifiable means. 

Sir J. Malcolm's Sketches of Persia. 



ROUGE ET NOIR. 



" Could I forget 

What I have been, I might the better bear 

What I am destined to. I'm not the first 

That have been wretched — but to think how much 

I have been happier ! " Southern. 

Never shall I forget that accursed 27th of September : 
it is burnt in upon the tablet of my memory ; graven in 
letters of blood upon my heart. I look back to it with a 
strangely-compounded feeling of horror and delight ; of 
horror at the black series of wretched days and sleepless 
nights of which it was the fatal precursor; of delight at 
that previous career of tranquillity and self-respect which 
it was destined to terminate — alas, forever ! 



ROUGE ET NOIR. 55 

On that day, I had been about a fortnight in Paris, and, 
in passing through the garden of the Palais Royal, had 
stopped to admire the beautiful jet d'cau in its centre, on 
which the sun-beams were falling so as to produce a small 
rainbow, when I was accosted by my old friend, major 

E , of the fusileers. After the first surprises and 

salutations, as he found that the business of procuring 
apartments and settling my family had prevented my see- 
ing many of the Parisian lions, he offered himself as my 
Cicerone, proposing that we should begin by making the 
circuit of the building that surrounded us. With its his- 
tory, and the remarkable events of which it had been the 
scene, I was already conversant; but of its detail and ap- 
propriation, which, as he assured me, constituted its sole 
interest in the eyes of the Parisians, I was completely 
ignorant. 

After taking a cursory view of most of the sights above 
ground in this multifarious pile, I was conducted to some 
of its subterraneous wonders, — to the Cafe du Sauvage, 
where a man is hired, for six francs a night, to personate 
that character, by beating a great drum, with all the grin- 
ning, ranting, and raving of a madman ; — to the Cafe des 
Aveugles, whose numerous orchestra is entirely composed 
of blind men and women ; — and to the Cafe des Varietes, 
whose small theatre, as well as its saloons and labyrinths, 
are haunted by a set of sirens not less dangerous than 
the nymphs who assailed Ulysses. Emerging from these 
haunts, v/e found that a heavy shower was falling ; and 
while we paraded once more the stone gallery, my friend 
suddenly exclaimed, as his eye fell upon the numbers of 
the houses — " One hundred and fifty-four! — positively we 
are going away without visiting one of the " gaming- 
houses was the meaning of the term he employed, though 
he expressed it by a word that the fashionable preacher 
never mentioned to " ears polite." — " I have never yet 
entered," said 1, *' a Pandaemonium of this sort, and I 



56 ROUGE ET NOm. 

never will : — I refrain from it upon principle ; — ' Principiis 
obsta.' I am of Dr. Johnson's temperament ; I can prac- 
tise abstinence, but not temperance ; and every body 
knows that prevention is better than cure." " Do you re- 
member," replied E , " what the same Dr. Johnson 

said to Boswell — ' My dear sir, clear your mind of cant.' 
I do not ask you to play ; but you must have often read, 
when you were a good little boy, that ' vice, to be hated, 
needs but to be seen,' and cannot have forgotten that the 
Spartans sometimes made their slaves drunk, and showed 
them to their children to inculcate sobriety. Love of vir- 
tue is best secured by a hatred of its opposite : to hate it, 
you must see it : besides, a man of the world should see 
every thing." " But it is so disreputable," I rejoined. 

— " How completely John-Bullish ! " exclaimed E . 

" Disreputable ! why, I am going to take you to an estab- 
lishment recognized, regulated, ai}d taxed by the govern- 
ment, the upholders of religion and social order, who 
annually derive six millions of francs from this source of 
revenue; and as to the company, I promise you that you 
shall encounter men of the first respectability, of all sects 
and parties ; for, in France, every one gambles at these sa- 
lons, — except the devotees, and they play at home." — He 
took my arm, and I walked up stairs with him, merely 
ejaculating, as we reached the door, " Mind, I don't play. "- 
Entering an ante-room, we were received by two or 
three servants, who took our sticks and hats, for which we 
received tickets; and by the number suspended around, I 
perceived that there was a tolerably numerous attendance 
within. Rouldtc was the game to which the first cham- 
ber was dedicated. In the middle of a long green table 
was a circular excavation, resembling a large gilt basin, 
in whose centre was a rotatory apparatus turning an ivory 
ball in a groove, which, after sundry gyrations, descended 
to the bottom of the basin, where there was a round of 
little numbered compartments or pigeon-holes, into one of 



ROUGE ET NOIR. 57 

which it finally settled, when the number was proclaimed 
aloud. Beside this apparatus, there was painted on the 
green baize a table of various successive numbers, with 
divisions for odd and even, &lc., on which the players de- 
posited their various stakes. He who was in the compart- 
ment of the proclaimed number was a winner; and if he 
had singled out that individual one, which of course was 
of very rare occurrence, his deposit was doubled I know 
not how many times. The odd or even declared their 
own fate : they were lost or doubled. This altar of chance 
had but few votaries; and, merely stopping a moment to 
admire the handsome decorations of the room, we passed 
on into the next. 

" This," whispered my companion, — for there was a dead 
silence in the apartment, although the long table was en- 
tirely surrounded by people playing, — '* this is only the 
silver room ; you may deposit here as low as a five franc 
piece : let us pass on to the next, where none play but 
those who will risk bank-notes or gold." Casting a pass- 
ing glance at these comparatively humble gamesters, who 
were, however, all too deeply absorbed to move their eyes 
from the cards, I followed my conductor into the sanctuary 
of the gilded Mammon. 

Here was a rouge et noir table, exactly like the one I 
had just quitted. In its centre was a profuse display of 
gold in bowls and rouleaus, with thick piles of bank-notes, 
on either side of which sat a partner of the bank and an 
assistant, the dragon guards of this Hesperian fruit. An 
oblong square, painted on each end of the green table, 
exhibited three divisions, one for rouge, another for noir, 
and the centre was for the stakes of those who speculated 
upon the color of the first and last card, with other rami- 
fications of the art, which it would be tedious to describe. 
Not one of the chairs around the table was unoccupied, 
and I observed that each banker and assistant was provid- 
ed with a ratcau, or rake, somewhat resembling a garden 



58 ROUGE ET NOIR. 

hoe, several of which were also dispersed about, that the 
respective winners might withdraw the gold without the 
objectionable intervention of fingers. When the stakes 
are all deposited, the dealer, one of the bankers in the cen- 
tre, cries out, *' Le jeu est fait," after which nothing can 
be added or withdrawn ; and then, taking a packet of cards 
from a basket full before him, he proceeds to deal. Thirty- 
one is the number of the game : the color of the first card 
determines whether the first row be black or red : the 
dealer turns up till the numbers on the cards exceed thirty- 
one, when he lays down a second row in tlie same man- 
ner; and whichever is nearest to that amount is the win- 
ning row. If both come to the same, he cries " Apres," 
and recommences with fresh cards ; but if each division 
should turn up thirty-one, the bank takes half of the whole 
money deposited, as a forfeit from the players. In this 
consists their certain profit, which has been estimated at 
ten per cent, upon the total stakes. If the red loses, the 
banker on that side rakes all the deposits into his treasury ; 
if it wins, he throws down the number of Napoleons or 
notes necessary to cover the lodgments made by the play- 
ers, each one of whom rakes off" his prize, or leaves it for 

a fresh venture. E explained to me the functions of 

the different members of the establishment — the inspector, 
the croupier, the tailleur, the messieurs de la chambre, 
&LC., and also the meaning of the ruled card and pins 
which every one held before him, consulting it with the 
greatest intenseness, and occasionally calling to the peo- 
ple in attendance for a fresh supply. This horoscope was 
divided by perpendicular lines into columns, headed with 
an alternate R and N, for Rouge and Noir; and the pin is 
employed to perforate the card as each color wins, as a 
groundwork for establishing some calculation in that 
elaborate delusion termed the doctrine of chances. Some, 
having several of these records before them, closely pierc- 
ed all over, were summing up the results upon paper, as 



ROUGE ET NOIR. 59 

if determined to play a game of chance without leaving 
any thing to hazard ; and none seemed willing to adven- 
ture without having some species of sanction from these 
Sibylline leaves. 

An involuntary sickness and loathing of heart came 
over me as I contemplated this scene, and observed the 
sofas in an adjoining room, which the Parisians, who turn 
every thing into a joke, have christened " the hospital for 
the wounded." There, thought I to myself, many a 
wretch has thrown himself down in anguish and despair 
of soul, cursing himself and the world with fearful impre- 
cations, or blaspheming in that silent bitterness of spirit 
which is more terrific than words. I contrasted the gaudy 
decorations and paneled mirrors that surrounded me with 
the smoky and blackened ceiling — sad evidence of the 
nocturnal lamps lighted up at the shrine of this Baal, and 
of the unhallowed worship prosecuted through the livelong 
night. Turning to the window, I beheld the sun shining 
from the bright blue sky : the rain was over, the birds were 
singing in the trees, and the leaves fluttering in the wind ; 
the external gayety giving the character of an appalling 
antithesis to the painful silence, immovable attitudes, and 
spell-bound looks of the care-worn figures within. One 
m.an, a German, was contending against a run of ill-luck 
with a dogged obstinacy that was obviously making deep 
inroads upon his purse and his peace: for, though his face 
was invisible from being bent over his perforated card, tlie 
drops of perspiration standing upon his forehead betrayed 
the inward acritation. All the losers were struo-o-lino; to 
suppress emotions which still revealed themselves by the 
working of some disobedient muscle, the compression of 
the lips, the sardonic grin, or the glaring wrath of the 
eye ; while the winners belied their assumed indifference 
by flushed cheeks and an expression of anxious triumph. 
Two or three forlorn operators, who had been cleaned 07it, 
as the phrase is, and condemned to idleness, were eyeing 



60 ROUGE ET NOIR. 

their more fortunate neighbors with a leer of malignant 
envy ; while the bankers and their assistants, in the cer- 
tainty of their profitable trade, exhibited a calm and watch- 
ful cunning, though their features, pale and sodden, be- 
trayed the effect of confinement, heated rooms, and mid- 
night vigils. E informed me that the frequenters of 

these houses were authorized to call for refreshments of 
any description, but no one availed himself of the privi- 
lege ; the " auri sacra fames," the pervading appetite of 
the place, had swallowed up every other. The very 
thought revolted me. What ! eat and drink in this arena 
of the hateful passions ! in this fatal room, from which 
many a suicide has rushed out to grasp the self-destroying 
pistol, or plunge into the darkness of the wave ! in this 
room, which is denounced to Heaven by the widow's tears 
and the orphan's maledictions ! Revolving these thoughts 
in my mind, 1 surveyed once more the faces before me, 
and could not help exclaiming, " What a hideous study of 
human nature ! " 

" As we have employed so much time," said E , 

*' in taking the latitude, or rather the longitude, of these 
various phizes, we shall be expected to venture some- 
thing : I will throw down a Napoleon, as a sop to Cerbe- 
rus, and will then convoy you home." " Nay," replied I, 
" it was for my instruction we came hither : the lesson I 
have received is well worth the money ; so put down this 
piece of gold, and let us begone." " Let us at least wait 
till we have lost it," he resumed ; " and in the mean time 
we will take our places at the table." I felt that I blush- 
ed as I sat down, and was about to deposit my offering 
hap hazard, when my companion stopped my hand, and, 
borrowing a perforated card, bade me remark, that the 
red and black had zig-zagged, or won alternately for four- 
teen times ; and that there had subsequently been a long 
•run upon the black, which would now probably cross over 
to the other color ; from all which premises he deduced 



ROUGE ET NOIR. 61 

that I should venture upon the red ; which I accordingly 
did. Sir Balaam's devil, who " now tempts by making 
rich, not making poor," was, I verily believe, hovering 
over my devoted head at that instant; my deposit was 
doubled, and I was preparing to decamp with my two 
Naps, when my adviser insisted upon my not balking my 
luck, as there would probably be a run upon the red ; and 
I suffered my stake to remain, and go on doubling until I 
had won ten or twelve times in succession. "Now," 

cried E , " I should advise you to pocket the affront, 

and be satisfied." Adopting his counsel, I could hardly 
believe his assertion, or my own eyes, when he handed 
me over bank-notes to the amount of twenty thousand 
francs, observing that I had made a tolerably successful 
dehut. 

Returning home in some perturbation and astonishment 
of mind, I resolved to prepare a little surprise for my wife ; 
and, spreading the bank-notes upon the table with as much 
display as possible, I told her, upon her entering the room, 
how I had won them ; and, inquiring whether Aladdin, 
with his wonderful lamp, could have spent two or three 
hours more profitably, I stated my intention of appropria- 
ting a portion of it to her use in the purchase of a hand- 
some birth-day present. In a moment, the blood rush- 
ed to her face, and as quickly receded, leaving it of an 
ashy paleness, when she spurned the notes from her, ex- 
claiming, with a solemn terror, " I would as soon touch 
the thirty pieces of silver for which Judas betrayed his 
Master." Her penetrating mind instantly saw the danger 
to which I had exposed myself, and her fond heart as 
quickly gave the alarm to her feelings ; but in a few sec- 
onds, she threw her arms around me, and ejaculated, as 
the tears ran down her cheek, " Forgive me, my dear 
Charles; pardon my vehemence, my ingratitude; I have 
a present to ask, a boon to implore — ^promise that you will 
grant it me." "Most willingly," I rejoined, "if it be in 
6 



62 ROUGE ET ROIR. 

my power." '' Give me, then, your pledge, never to play 
again," " Cheerfully," continued I, for I had already 
formed that resolution. She kissed me w^ith many affec- 
tionate thanks, adding that I had made her completely 
happy. I believe it, for at that moment I felt so myself. 

Many men, who are candid and upright in arguing with 
others, are the most faithless and Jesuitical of casuists in 
chopping logic with themselves. Let no one trust his 
head in a contest with the heart : the former, suppressing 
or perverting whatever is disagreeable to the latter, will 
assume a demure and sincere conviction, while it has all 
along been playing booty, and furnishing weapons to its 
adversary. The will must be honest, if we wish the judg- 
ment to be so. A tormenting itch for following up my 
good luck, as I termed it, set me upon devising excuses 
for violating my pledge to my wife ; and no shuffling or 
quibbling was too contemptible for my purpose. I had 
promised never to play again — " at that house ;" or, if I 
had not actually said so, I meant to say so : there could be 
no forfeiture of my word, therefore, if I went to another. 
Miserable sophistry! yet, wretched as it was, it satisfied 
my conscience for the moment ; so easily is a weak man 
deluded into criminal indulgence. Fortified with such 
valid arguments, I made my debut at the Salon des Etran- 
gers, and, after a two hours' sitting, had the singular good 
luck to return home a winner of nearly as much as 
I had gained on the first day. Success, for once, made 
me moderate : in the humility of my prosperous play, I 
resolved only to continue till I had won ten thousand 
pounds, when I would communicate my adventures to my 
wife, with a solemn abjuration of the pursuit in future ; 
and, as I considered myself in possession of the certain 
secret of winning whatever I pleased, I took credit to my- 
self for my extreme moderation. From Frascati, the 
scene of my third attempt, by a lucky, or rather unlucky 
fatality, which my subsequent experience only renders the 



ROUGE ET NOIR. 68 

more wonderful, I retired with a sum exceeding the whole 
of my previous profits; when, like the tiger who is render- 
ed insatiate by the taste of blood, I instantly became rav- 
enous for larger riches; and, already repenting the paltry 
limitation of the day before, determined on proceeding 
until I had doubled its amount. Another day's luck, and 
even this would have been spurned ; for neither Johnson's 
Sir Epicure Mammon, nor Massinger's Luke, nor Pope's 
Sir Balaam, underwent a more rapid developement of 
latent ambition. Indistinct visions of grandeur floated 
before my eyes; my senses already seemed to be steeped 
in a vague magnificence; and, after hesitating, in a sort 
of waking dream, between Wanstead House and Font- 
hill, — one of which I held to be too near, and the other too 
distant from London, — I dwelt complacently on the idea of 
building a mansion at some intermediate station, which 
should surpass the splendor of both. Sleep presenting to 
me the same images through a magnifying glass, I went 
forth next morning to the accomplishment of my destiny 
with an exaltation of mind little short of delirium. 

Weak and wicked reveries ! — A single turn of Fortune's 
wheel reduced me, not to reason, but to an opposite ex- 
treme of mortification and despondence. A run of ill 
luck swept away, in one hour, more than half my gains; 
and, unfortunately, losing my temper still faster than my 
money, I kept doubling my stakes in the blindness of my 
rage, and quitted the table at night, not only lightened of 
all my suddenly-acquired wealth, but loser of a considera- 
ble sum besides. 1 could now judge by experience of the 
bitterness of soul that I had lately inflicted upon those 
who had lost what I had won, and inwardly cursed the 
pursuit whose gratifications could only spring from the 
miseries of others; but so far from abandoning this inev- 
itable see-saw of wretchedness, I felt as if I had been de- 
frauded of my just property, and burned with the desire 
of taking my revenge. The heart-sickening detail of my 



64 ROUGE ET NOIIt. 

infirmity, my reverses, and my misery, need not be follow- 
ed up. Suffice it to say, that a passion, a fury, an actual 
phrensy of play, absorbed every faculty of my soul : mine 
was worse than a Promethean fate; I was gnawed and 
devoured by an inward fire which nothing could allay. 
Alas ! not even poverty and the want of materials could 
quench it. In my career of prosperity, I felt not the 
fraud I was practising upon my wife, for I meant to make 
my peace with ten or twenty thousand pounds in my 
hand, and a sincere renunciation of gaming in my heart; 
but, now that I was bringing ruin upon her and my chil- 
dren, the sense of my falsehood and treachery imbittering 
the anguish of my losses, plunged me into unutterable re- 
morse and agony of soul. Still, I wanted courage to make 
the fatal revelation, and at last only imparted it to her in 
the cowardice of impending disgrace. 

Madame Deshoulieres says very truly, that gamesters 
begin by being dupes, and end by being knaves; and I am 
about to confirm it by an avowal to which nothing should 
have impelled me but the hope of deterring others by an 
exposure of my own delinquency. A female relation had 
remitted me seven hundred pounds to purchase into the 
French funds ; with which sum in my pocket I unfortu- 
nately called at the Salon des Etrangers, in my way to the 
stock-broker's; and, my evil genius suggesting to me that 
there was a glorious opportunity of recovering my heavy 
losses, I snatched the notes from my pocket, threw them 

on the table just before the dealer began and lost ! 

Stunned by the blow, I went home in a state of calm de- 
spair, communicated the whole to my wife in as few words 
as possible, and ended by declaring that she was a beggar, 
and her husband disgraced forever. " Not yet, my dear 
Charles," replied the generous woman, her eyes beaming 
with an affectionate forgiveness, — " not yet ; we may still 
exclaim with the French king after the battle of Pavia, 
' We have lost every thing but our honor ; and, while we 



ROUGE ET NOIR. 65 

retain that, our losses are but as a grain of sand.' We 
may be depressed by fortune, but we can only be dis- 
graced by ourselves. As to this seven hundred pounds — 
take my jewels — they will sell for more than is required ; 
and if our present misfortunes induce you to fly from 
Paris, and abandon this fatal pursuit, they will assured- 
ly become the greatest blessings of our life." 

No reproach ever passed her lips, or lingered in her 
eye ; nor did I fail to observe the delicacy which, min- 
gling up her own fate with mine, strove to soothe my feel- 
ings, by disguising my individual guilt under the cloak of 
a joint misfortune. Noble-minded woman ! Mezentius 
himself could not have devised a more cruel fate than to 
tie thee to a soul so dead to shame, and so defunct in 
gratitude as mine. 

Will not the reader loathe and detest me, even worse 
than I do myself, when I inform him, that, in return for all 
this magnanimity, I had the detestable baseness to linger in 
Paris, to haunt the gaming-table, to venture the wretched 
drainings of my purse in the silver room, to become an 
habitual borrower of paltry sums under pledges of repay- 
ment which I knew I had not the means of redeeming, and 
to submit tamely to the indignity of palpable cuts from 
my acquaintance in the public streets? From frequent- 
ly encountering at the salons, I had formed a slight friend- 
ship with Lord T , Lord F , Sir G W , 

Colonel T , and particularly with poor S 1, before 

he had consummated the ruin of his fine fortune, and de- 
bilitated his frame by paralysis, brought on by anxiety ; 
and I was upon terms of intimacy with others of my 
countrymen, who, with various success, but much more 
ample means than myself, were making offerings to the 
demon of Rouge et Noir. Should this brief memoir fall 
beneath the eye of any of my quondam friends, they may 
not impossibly derive benefit from its perusal : at all events, 
they may be pleased to know that I have not forgotten 
6* 



66 ROUGE ET NOIR. 

their kindnesses. I am aware that I abused their assist- 
ance, and wore out their patience ; but I never anticipa- 
ted the horror to which the exhaustion of my own means, 
and the inability to extort more from others, would reduce 
me. The anguish of my losses, the misery of my degra- 
dation, the agony of mind with which I reflected upon my 
impoverished wife and family, were nothing, absolutely 
nothing, compared to the racking torment of being com- 
pelled to refrain from gambling. It sounds incredible, 
but it is strictly true. To sit at the table with empty 
pockets, and to see others playing, was absolutely insup- 
portable. I envied even the heaviest losers : could I have 
found an antagonist, I would have gambled for an eye, an 
arm, a leg, for life itself A thousand demons seemed to be 
gnawing at my heart : I believed I was mad : I even hope 
I was. 

Yes ; I have tasked myself to detail my moral degrada- 
tion and utter prostration of character, with a fidelity wor- 
thy of Rousseau himself; and I feel it a duty not to shrink 
from my complete exposure. After a night passed in the 
state of mind I have been describing, in one of those 
haunts which I was justly entitled to denominate a hell, I 
wandered out at day-break towards the Pont de Jena, as 
if I could cool my parched lips and burning brain by the 
heavy shower that was then falling. As the dripping rus- 
tics passed me on their market-horses, singing and whis- 
tling, their happiness, seeming to be a mockery of my 
Avretchedness, filled me with a malignant rage. By the 
time I had reached the bridge, the rain had ceased : the 
rising sun, glancing upon the river, threw a bloom over 
the woods in the direction of Sevres and St. Cloud, and 
the birds were piping in the air. Ever a passionate ad- 
mirer of Nature, her charms stole me for a moment from 
myself; but, presently, my thoughts reverting from the 
heaven without to the hell within, I gnashed my teeth, and 
fell back into a double bitterness and despair of soul. 



ROUGE ET NOIR. 67 

I have always been a believer in sudden and irresistible 
impulses — an idea which will not appear ridiculous to those 
who are conversant with the records of crime. A portrait 
of Sarah Malcolm, the murderess, which I had seen many 
years ago in the possession of Lord Mulgrave, leading me 
to the perusal of her trial and execution, in the Newgate 
Calendar, induced me to give perfect credit to the aver- 
ment, that the idea of the crime came suddenly into her 
head without the least solicitation, and that she felt driven 
forward to its accomplishment by some invisible power. 
Similar declarations from many other offenders offer 
abundant confirmation of the same fact ; and it will be in 
the recollection of many, that the murderer of Mr. and 
Mrs. Bonar at Chiselhurst, repeatedly declared that he 
had never dreamt of the enormity ten minutes before its 
commission, but that the thought suddenly rushed into his 
mind, and pushed him forward to the bloody deed. Many 
people cannot look over a precipice without feeling tempt- 
ed to throw themselves down. T know a most affectionate 
father, who never approaches a window with his infant 
child, without being haunted by solicitations to cast it into 
the street; and a gentleman of unimpeachable honor, who, 
if he happens, in walking the highway, to see a note-case 
or handkerchief emerging from a passenger's pocket, is 
obliged to stop short or cross over the way, so vehemently 
does he feel impelled to withdraw them.' These " toys of 
desperation," generated in the giddiness of the mind at 
the bare imagination of any horror, drive it to commit the 
reality as a relief from the fearful vision, upon the same 
principle that delinquents voluntarily deliver themselves 
up to justice, because death itself is less intolerable than 
the fear of it. Let it not be imagined that I am seeking 
to screen any of these unhappy men from the conse- 
quences of their hallucination ; I am merely asserting a 
singular property of the mind, of which I myself am 
about to record a frightful confirmation. 



68 ROUGE ET NOIR. 

Standing on the bridge, and turning away my looks 
from the landscape in that despair of heart which I have 
described, my downcast eyes fell upon the waters gliding 
placidly beneath me. They seemed to invite me to quench 
the burning fire with which I was consumed : the river 
whispered to me, with a distinct utterance, that peace and 
oblivion were to be found in its Lethean bed : every mus- 
cle of my body was animated by an instant and insupera- 
ble impulse ; and within half a minute from its first mad- 
dening sensation, I had climbed over the parapet, and 
plunged headlong into the water. The gushing of waves 
in my ears, and the rapid flashing of innumerable lights 
before my eyes, are the last impressions I recollect. Into 
the circumstances of my preservation I never had the 
heart to inquire : when consciousness revisited me, I found 
myself lying upon my own bed, with my wife weeping be- 
side me, though she instantly assumed a cheerful look, 
and told me that I had met with a dreadful accident, hav- 
ing fallen into the river, when leaning over to examine 
some object beneath. That she knows the whole truth, 
I am perfectly convinced ; but we scrupulously avoid the 
subject, by an understood, though unexpressed compact. 
It is added in her mind to the long catalogue of my of- 
fences, never to be alluded to, and, alas ! never to be for- 
gotten. She left my bedside for a moment, to return with 
my children, who rushed up to me with a cry of joy ; and 
as they contended for the first kiss, and inquired after my 
health with glistening eyes, the cruelty, the atrocity of 
my cowardly attempt struck with a withering remorse upon 
my heart. 

Smith. 



THE HEIRESS. 



THE HEIRESS. 



How much of human hostility depends on that circum- 
stance — distance ! If the most bitter enemies were to 
come into contact, how much their ideas of each other 
would be chastened and corrected ! They would mutually 
amend their erroneous impressions ; see much to admire, 
and much to imitate in each other ; and half the animos- 
ity that sheds its baneful influence on society would fade 
away and be forgotten. 

It was one day when I was about seven years old, after 
an unusual bustle in the family mansion, and my being 
arrayed in a black frock, much to my inconvenience, in 
the hot month of August, that I was told, my asthmatic 
old uncle had gone off like a lamb, and that I was heiress 
of ten thousand per annum. This information, given 
with an air of infinite importance, made no very great im- 
pression upon me at the time ; and, in spite of the circum- 
stance being regularly dwelt on, by my French governess 
at Camden House, after every heinous misdemeanor, I 
had thought little or nothing on the subject, till, at the age 
of eighteen, I was called on to bid adieu to Levizac and 
pirouettes, and hear uncle's will read by my guardian. 

It appeared that my father and uncle, though brothers, 
had wrangled and jangled through life, and that the only 
subject on which they ever agreed, was, supporting the dig- 
nity of the Vavasour family ; that, in a moment of unpre- 
cedented unison, they had determined, that, as the title fell 
to my cousin Edgar, and the estates to me, to keep both 
united in the family, we should marry. And it seemed, 
whichever party violated these precious conditions was 
actually dependent on the other for bread and butter. 
When I first heard of this arrangement, I blessed myself, 
and Sir Edgar cursed himself A passionate, overbearing, 



70 THE HEIRESS. 

dissolute young man, thought I, for a husband, — for the 
husband of an orphan, — of a girl who has not a nearer re- 
lation than himself in the world, — who has no father to 
advise her, no mother to support her; — a professed rake, 
too, who will merely view me as an encumbrance on his 
estate ; who will think no love, no confidence, no respect, 
due to me; who will insult my feelings, deride my senti- 
ments, and wither with unkindness the best affections of 
my nature. No! I concluded, as my constitutional levity 
returned, I have the greatest possible respect for guard- 
ians, revere their office, and tremble at their authority; 
but to make myself wretched merely to please them — No ! 
no ! I positively cannot think of it." 

Well, time, who is no respecter of persons, went on. 
The gentleman was within a few months of being twenty- 
one ; and, on the day of his attaining age, he was to say 
whether it was his pleasure to fulfil the engagement. My 
opinion, I found, was not to be asked. A titled husband 
was procured for me, and I was to take him and be thank- 
ful. I was musing on my singular situation, when a 
thought struck me — Can I not see him, and judge of his 
character, unsuspected by himself This is the season 
when he pays an annual visit to my god-mother ; why not 
persuade her to let me visit her incog? The idea, strange 
as it was, was instantly acted on; and a week saw me at 
Vale Royal, without carriages, without horses, without 
servants; to all appearance a girl of no pretensions or ex- 
pectations, and avowedly dependent on a distant relation. 

To this hour, I remember my heart beating audibly, as 
I descended to the dining-room, where I was to see, for 
the first time, the future arbiter of my fate ; and I shall 
never forget my surprise, when a pale, gentlemanly, and 
rather reserved young man, in apparent ill health, was 
introduced to me for the noisy, dissolute, distracting 
and distracted baronet. Preciously have I been hoaxed, 
thought I, as, after a long and rather interesting conversa- 



THE HEIRESS. 71 

tion with Sir Edgar, I, with the other ladies, left the room. 
Days rolled on in succession. Chance continually brought 
us together, and prudence began to whisper, You had 
better return home. Still I lingered ; till, one evening, 
towards the close of a long tete-a-tete conversation, on 
my saying that I never considered money and happiness 
as synonymous terms, and thought it very possible to live 
on five hundred a year, he replied, " One admission more 
— could you live on it with me ? You are doubtless ac- 
quainted," he continued, with increasing emotion, " with 
my unhappy situation, but not perhaps aware, that, revolt- 
ing from a union with Miss Vavasour, I have resolved on 
taking orders, and accepting a living from a friend. If, 
foregoing more brilliant prospects, you would condescend 
to share my retirement — " His manner, the moment, the 
lovely scene which surrounded us, all combined against 
me ; and Heaven only knows what answer I might have 
been hurried into, had I not got out, with a gayety foreign 
to my heart — " I can say nothing to you till you have, in 
person, explained your sentiments to Miss Vavasour 
Nothing — positively nothing." "But why? Can seeing 
her again and again," he returned, " ever reconcile me to 
her manners, habits, and sentiments, — or any estates in- 
duce me to place at the head of my table, a hump-backed 
has bleu, in green spectacles?" 

"Hump-backed?" " Yes, from her cradle. But you 
color. Do you know her?" "Intimately. She's my most 
particular friend." " I sincerely beg your pardon. What 
an unlucky dog I am ! I hope you're not offended ? " 
" Offended ! offended ! offended ! O no — not offended. 
Hump-backed! good heavens! Not the least offended. 
Hump-backed ! of all things in the world ! " and I invol- 
untarily gave a glance at the glass. " I had no concep- 
tion," he resumed, as soon as he could collect himself, 
" that there was any acquaintance." " The most intimate," 
I replied ; " and I can assure you that you have been rep- 
resented to her as the most dissolute, passionate, awkward, 



72 THE BITTER WEDDING. 

ill-disposed young man breathing. See your cousin. You 
will find yourself mistaken. With her answer you shall 
have mine." And with a ludicrous attempt to smile, when 
I was monstrously inclined to cry, I contrived to make my 
escape. We did not meet again ; for, the next morning, 
in no very enviable frame of mind, I returned home. 

A few weeks afterwards. Sir Edgar came of age. The 
bells were ringing blithely in the breeze — the tenants 
were carousing on the lawn — when he drove up to the 
door. My cue was taken. With a large pair of green 
spectacles on my nose, in a darkened room, I prepared 
for this tremendous interview. After hems and hahs in- 
numerable, and with confusion the most distressing to 
himself, and the most amusing to me, he gave me to un- 
derstand he could not fulfil the engagement made for him, 
and regretted it had ever been contemplated. "No! no!" 
said I, in a voice that made him start, taking off my green 
spectacles with a profound courtesy — " No! no! it is pre- 
posterous to suppose that Sir Edgar Vavasour would ever 
connect himself with an ill-bred, awkward, hump-backed 
girl." Exclamations and explanations, laughter and rail- 
leries, intermixed with more serious feelings, followed; 
but the result of all was — that — that — that we were 
married. 

Blank Book of a Small Colleger. 



THE BITTER WEDDING, A SWISS LEGEND. 

One fine summer morning, many hundred years ago, 
young Berthold set out with a very heavy heart from his 
alpine hut, with a view of reaching, in the evening, the 
beautiful valley of Siebenthal, where stood his native vil- 
lage, and where he designed to be an unknown and silent 
guest at the dancing and festivity of certain merry-makers. 



THE BITTER WEDDING. 73 

''Ah!" sighed he, " it will be a bitter wedding. Had 
I died last spring, it were better with me now." 

"Fiddle faddle!" exclaimed a snarling voice from the 
road-side. ''Fiddle faddle! Where Master Almerich 
touches his fiddle, there it goes merrily : there is the 
hurly burly, dirling the bottoms out of the tubs and pitch- 
ers! Good morning, my child! Come, cheer up, my 
hearty, and let us trudge on together in good fellowship." 

The young herdsman had stopped when he first heard 
the croaking voice ; and now he could not speak for laugh- 
ing. An odd-looking, dwarfish figure, mounted upon one 
leg and a half, and propped upon a crutch, with a nose as 
long as one's thumb, made half a dozen wry faces as he 
hobbled up, quite out of breath, from a foot-path on the 
left side of the road. Behind the dwarf trailed an enor- 
mous fiddle, on which lay a large wallet — appurtenances 
which seemed to be attached to the little odd figure by 
way of ballast, lest the rush of the wind down the valley 
should sweep it away. 

"Good morning!" Berthold at last roared out; "you 
are a merry fellow, master fiddler, and shall be a comfort 
to me to-day. In spite of my misfortunes, I could not help 
laughing at the sight of you and your hugeous fiddle. 
Take it not amiss; a laugh has been a rare thing with me 
for many a day." 

"Has it, indeed?" rejoined the dwarf; "and yet so 
young! Perhaps you are heart-sick, my son?" 

" Yes, if you will call it so," replied the herdsman. 
"Here, in our mountains and valleys, a great many fellows 
run about fancying themselves in love, while they are all 
the time eating, drinking, and sleeping, as sound as any 
marmot, and in one year's time will easily pass from Mar- 
garet to Rosamond. That is all a mockery. I would 
much rather die than forget Siegelind ; though with me 
all rest and joy are forever gone." 

"Ay, ay," replied Master Almerich, "I thought you 
7 



74 THE BITTER WEDDING. 

were going to the dance, my hearty. I heard you crying 
out of a bitter wedding, and I thought to myself, ' Aha, 
he does not get the right one.' " 

"Ah, that's true enough," replied Berthold; " Ae does 
not get the right one — that Hildebrand. I will tell you 
the whole matter. Master Almerich, as you seem to be 
going the same way, if I understood you aright." 

"Ah, yes!" sighed the dwarf; "surely, surely, if I 
had only got a pair of stout legs. Look you here, my 
dear child ; what a miserable stump is this for crawling 
down the mountain ! I am asthmatic too, and my throat 
has been enlarging these last fifty years ; and that wal- 
let has galled my back sore all yesterday in climbing over 
the rough hills. Heaven knows when I shall get to the 
wedding. There was such a talking of that feast on the 
other side of the mountain, that, thought I to myself, I 
will go thither also, and make some money; so I took 
my fiddle, and began to crawl up the ascent; yester- 
day I became quite exhausted, and now I must lay me 
down here by the side of the road, and submit to fate. 
Tell me all about the wedding when you return, my hearty, 
— if the wolves have not swallowed or hunger killed me 
before that time." 

With these words, the dwarf, apparently exhausted, 
sunk down, with a deep and melancholy sigh, on the near- 
est stone, threw his bundle on the grass, and stretched 
out his bony hand, as if to take a last farew^ell of young 
Berthold, who in silence leaned upon his staff, gazing on 
the fiddler, and quite unable to comprehend what ailed 
him. 

" Master," began the herdsman, " how you sink ! You 
have left all your gay spirits at home. Although it is a 
weary journey for me as well as you, I will yet endeavor 
to carry your wallet and fiddle, so I may enjoy your com- 
pany on the road. You must really hear what presses 
upon my soul, — perhaps I may obtain some relief in speak- 



THE BITTER WEDDING. 75 

ing it out, and you will have some pithy word of comfort 
for me." 

The dwarf thanked him heartily for his kind offer, and 
quickly transferred his wallet and fiddle to the stout shoul- 
ders of the herdsman ; then took his crutch, whistled a 
merry tune, and trudged gayly on by the side of Ber- 
thold. 

"It is a long story, this wedding," began the herds- 
man; *' but I will be as brief as possible, for it still grieves 
me to the heart when I think about it; and whoever can 
understand it at all, understands it soon : my sufferings 
will never be at an end, though I should talk the whole 
day about it. 

"In the village there, below us, old Bernhard has a 
pretty, sweet girl of a daughter, Siegelind : he has lived 
for many years in a nice little cottage, and his wife Ger- 
trude with him, close by the stream, where the road strikes 
off into the wood. Their employment is to make wooden 
spoons for the herdsmen, by which, and the help of a goat 
and a couple of sheep, they gain a scanty livelihood. 

" Last winter, having gone thither and got some ashen 
spoons and cups nicely cut, I thought with myself, ' That 
will do exactly : my father is already old, and sends me, 
with the cattle, to the mountain in spring ; and if I only 
behave there as becomes a herdsman, I descend in autumn, 
and marry Siegelind, and find myself a right free, happy 
man.' 

"Ah, Master Almerich, my words do poor justice to my 
heart: my feelings always get the start of them, and reason 
comes limping after. 

"I beheld Siegelind, you see, moving actively about, — 
wearing a cheerful countenance late and early, — all good- 
ness and discretion from top to toe, and pretty too, — over- 
flowing with gay spirits, and merry songs without number ; 
all that my eye, my ear, and my heart, drank in smoothly : 
she was satisfied, and the old people too : so in summer 



76 THE BITTER WEDDING. 

I was to go to the mountain, and at harvest-home to the 
wedding ; and she gave me this waistcoat to wear on the 
hills in remembrance of her. 

" Meanwhile the spring came, and old Bernhard trav- 
ersed tlie forest, selecting the finest stems for his carving 
work, and exerting all his skill to provide us with fine fur- 
niture ao-ainst the weddinor. 

" So, one morning, he was ascending the mountain mer- 
rily, through those ravines where there are some marvel- 
lously fine trees, when a little man, in an odd sort of dress, 
hastened to meet him, screaming violently, and beckoning 
and calling him so earnestly that he could not but go with 
him. They soon reached a barn, where he found the wife 
of the little dwarfish stranger lying sick and in extremity. 
Her he relieved and cured ; but for me — bride, peace, and 
happiness were lost from that hour." 

" Ah, good heavens!" exclaimed Almerich ; *' you are 
talking bravely, whilst I am almost starving; — hop, hop, 
hop ; — we are trudging incessantly on, and my stomach is 
as empty as a bagpipe ; yesterday evening — nothing ; this 
morning — nothing ; O that brave wedding-dance ; the fid- 
dle runs off, and Master Almerich is starving here ! " 

" Now, now, the deuce ! " bawled the herdsman ; " what 
have you got here in this cursed wallet? Here am I toil- 
ing on with this plagued bag, rubbing the very skin off 
my shoulder. I thought there were at least ham, and 
cheese, and fresh bread, in it : if not, why should I be 
smothered under such a bundle of rags? " 

" Softly, soflly, my son," replied the fiddler; "there are 
treasures in it; an old barret-cap of Siegefried, and an 
old sword-belt of Dieterich, and a couple of old leathern 
soles of Ylsan, child ! These are no every-day concerns, 
my hearty ! They are all sacred relics to him who under- 
stands the thing. They are worth a whole mountain of 
sweet wine, and seven acres of thick golden wheat, to him 
who knows their value." 



THE BITTER WEDDING. 77 

**It may be so," said the herdsman; "I only wish we 
had a few cups of milk in the place of your treasures; 
but if it is so with your stomach, my good master, look 
you here ; I have a mouthful of meagre goat-milk cheese, 
which I meant to serve me for the niglit; but never mind, 
I am little disposed to eat." 

Berthold now produced his provisions, and Almerich 
devoured them as greedily as if he meant to swallow the 
herdsman after them by way of dessert. The bread was 
quickly devoured, and honest Berthold saw his supper de- 
voured beforehand ; then the fiddler wiped his mouth, 
leaped briskly up, was again in good spirits, and stumped 
away before the herdsman as freshly as if nothing had ail- 
ed him. All this, however, seemed very odd to Berthold ; 
and when he again felt the annoyance of the wallet, he 
drew a sigh so deep, that it echoed back from the neigh- 
boring rocks. 

" Lack-a-day ! " said Almerich again, ''the poor lad 
has lost his bride and his peace of heart. I have been so 
concerned about him that I could not eat a bit." 

" That fellow could devour the Stockhorn,"* thought 
Berthold, somewhat angrily; "the club-foot is not in his 
right senses, I believe. 

" It was really too bad," began he, at last, aloud ; " the 
dwarf in the barn returned a profusion of thanks to old 
Bernhard, and said, ' I am a foreign miner, and have lost 
the road, with my good wife; so I have nothing to reward 
you with for your kind services, save a little bit of cheese 
and a few draughts of wine. So take that, and remember 
the poor fellow who gave you what he could, and will pray 
that Heaven may reward you further.' 

" To old Bernhard, the crumb of cheese and the few 
spoonfuls of wine seemed poor enough ; and he accepted 

* The Stockhorn, a well-known rock behind Erlenbach, in the 
Siebenthal. 

7* 



78 THE BITTER WEDDING. 

the little bottle and piece of cheese only to get rid ol* the 
importunity of the dwarf, who would take no refusal, 

" Towards noon, Bernhard was proceeding to his vil- 
lage : the road was long, and, feeling fatigued, he lay down 
in the shade of a tree, took out the gift of the dwarf, and 
began to eat and to drink. Meanwhile my evil stars 
bring young Hildebrand, the most miserly fellow in the 
village, in his way : — ' God bless you, Father Bernhard ! ' — 
' Thank you, my son.' Thus the conversation proceeded. 
The niggard sees the old man comfortably enjoying his 
repast ; so he sets himself down beside him, and takes a 
share. There they eat and eat for about an hour : the 
wine never gets less, and the cheese is never done ; and 
both behold the miracle till their hair stands on end. 

" All was now over, master fiddler, and poor Berthold 
was undone. 

•' Hildebrand chose words as polished as marble : they 
went down with Bernhard as smoothly as honey : my dear, 
sweet Siegelind was pledged to the rich miser, with the 
marvellous cheese for her dowry. The old man was quite 
beside himself; the young man talked finely ; they were 
to outdo the whole village, and keep their secret to them- 
selves ; I was called a miserable wretch, and the spirit of 
mischief just brought me into their way in time to hear 
the whole sad story." 

" Ah, good heavens ! " again exclaimed Almerich: "I 
am undone with cold ; it is turning a cold, rainy day, and 
my bones are too naked ! Hew, hew ! how the storm 
blows into my very soul. This day will be my death; I 
thought so before. Go, my son ; I give you the fiddle as a 
present : leave me the wallet here ; I will stretch myself 
out to die upon it." 

" The mischief's in it ! " grumbled Berthold ; " if mat- 
ters are to go on this way, we shall be a year and a day 
hence still travelling this cursed road. Hark ye, old boy ; 
you are an odd fellow ; with crutches, without meat and 



THE BITTER WEDDING. 79 

drink, and without a worsted coat, wandering through our 
rough country, with a fiddle as large as a ton, and a wal- 
let as heavy as seven three-stone cheeses ! That may in- 
deed be called a tempting of Providence ! Why the deuce 
do you drag after you that ass's burden of old rubbish, and 
have not the convenience of a cloak in your bundle ? " 

" It is all very true," said Almerich ; ** I am not yet ac- 
customed to be the lame, feeble man you see me. Thirty 
years ago, I skipped like a leveret over hills and dales ; 
but now, farewell to friend Almerich ; I shall never leave 
this place ; however, it is all one, — perish here or die 
there, a dying bed is ever a hard one, even though it 
should be of down and silk." 

'' Now really," replied Berthold, " you are too whimsi- 
cal, fiddler ! The cold blast never hurts a tough fellow 
who is accustomed to run about the mountains. There, 
slip into my coat, and walk smartly on, for a shower is ap- 
proaching, and that rascally wallet is weighing me down." 

"Patience, child, patience!" said Almerich, "that coat 
is quite warm from your shoulders, — I feel very comforta- 
ble in it, — slowly, gently ; your story of the marvellous 
cheese and wine has quite restored me to warmth — how 
did the matter go on ? " 

" You rogue and rascal," thought Berthold to himself, 
and then continued his lamentable tale. 

" How did it go on ! — Gertrude sang to the same tune 
as her husband; Siegelind grew sad, and lost her color and 
strength; the old boy urged the matter, and Hildebrand 
too. Bcrnhard was anxious to get the rich and proud son- 
in-la\\-, and was in great fear lest the enchanted wine 
should soon dry up. The young fellow had money in his 
eye, and v/ished to turn the bewitched cheese to usury. 
Thus the wedding was determined on, and I was left in sad- 
ness upon my mountain. I tried to forget it ; I thought 
Siegelind could not have borne me in her heart, otherwise 
she would not, to escape death and martyrdom, have mar- 



80 THE BITTER WEDDING. 

ried the red-haired Hildebrand. Last night I could find 
neither rest nor sleep upon my straw. I must go and see 
her with my own eyes take that miser for her husband. 
Near the village I will wrap up my head, and dye my 
hands and cheeks with berries, so that nobody will know 
me ; and in the bustle of the wedding, when every thing 
is turning topsy-turvy, not a living soul will care for poor 
Berthold. When all is over, I will, so it please Heaven, 
become wise again ; or, if not, my head will turn alto- 
gether, and that will be a blessing too." 

"My good child," said the dwarf, ''all that will pass 
over. Now, I perceive well that it is a hard journey and 
a bitter wedding too for you : it is, however, good luck, 
my child, that you have me for a companion. I will fiddle 
till your heart leaps again : your sorrow grieves me as 
much as if it were my own." 

Whilst talking thus, a few drops of rain fell, which proved 
the prelude to a heavy shower; and, although the travellers 
had already gone a considerable way, they were still far 
from the end of their journey, and, gush after gush, the 
rain poured upon their heads, till the water ran down from 
their hats as from a spout. 

Berthold trudged silently on, sighing frequently and 
heavily under his burden : he could have sworn that it in- 
creased a pound's weight every step ; nevertheless it was 
impossible for his good nature to think of giving it back 
to the poor cripple in such a tempest. The moisture be- 
gan to trickle through his waistcoat, and run in a cold 
stream down his back ; he wished himself, the dwarf, and 
the wedding, all far enough, but stalked sullenly on 
through the mud as if he had been wading through the 
highest alpine grass. 

The fiddler limped close behind him, croaking, occa- 
sionally, through his raven throat, an old spring song, which 
told of sunshine, and singing birds, and pleasure, and 
love. He then drew himself snugly together, and expa- 



THE BITTER WEDDING. 81 

tiated on the excellence of the herdsman's coat, which, he 
said, was quite water-proof; next he called to Berthold to 
step leisurely, to pay particular attention to the wallet and 
fiddle, and not to overheat himself. 

The herdsman would have lost all patience and courage 
a thousand times over, in dragging his hundred weight of 
a load, and playing the fool to the crazy fiddler, if he had 
not been ashamed to throw away the burden which he had 
volunteered to carry, and to forsake the person whose 
company he had himself invited. But in his heart he 
vowed deeply and solemnly never again to Ifend his coat to 
a fiddler, nor give away his cheese, nor carry a fiddle and 
wallet, — and after all be mocked and laughed at by such 
an odd quiz of a fellow ! *' If/' thought he at last, " the 
upshot of all this is a fever in the evening, which carries 
me quickly off", be it so, — it remains a bitter wedding." 

After a few hours of rain, the two companions reached 
the valley, where a swollen and rapid torrent rushed across 
their path, which had swept away every vestige of the lit- 
tle bridge that led to the village, with the exception of a 
single small plank ; the herdsman heeded not the narrow 
footing, and was stepping boldly across, when the fiddler 
began to roar out lustily about the dangers of the path — 
" For my life and soul, I will not move from this spot. 
Neither cat nor rat could pass over there. T should be a 
dead man if I ventured on that cursed plank. Let them 
fiddle yonder who can swim. I wish I was in a down 
bed, with my fiddle for a pillow." 

" Don't make such a noise about it," cried Berthold ; 
" if our journey has led us as far as this, we shall surely 
get on a little farther ; if I have brought the fiddler this 
length to the bitter dance, I will also bring him to the 
wedding-house. Though I am a fool, I am, nevertheless, 
a good-natured one." 

With these words, the herdsman took off the fiddle and 
wallet from his back, and supplied their place with the 



82 THE BITTER WEDDING. 

dwarf, whom he carried over as easily as a bundle of 
straw. Then he fetched the fiddle, wallet, and crutch, 
which lay as heavy as so many stones upon his shoul- 
ders. 

''Well, the best of it now is," said he, " that we shall 
soon reach the village : either my head is turned, or that 
wallet is filled with flesh and blood, and Master Almerich's 
body is stuffed with chaff." 

"Nonsense!" replied the fiddler with a broad grin. 
" You have behaved well, child : it would be a great pity 
if the bride yonder should not get you : you have the 
genuine patience of the lamb in you ; yet I perceive you 
have also strength enough, with your heart in the right 
place, and as much wisdom as there is any need of in the 
country. Come, let us paint your cheeks, and take out 
the old cap you will find in my wallet, and the green 
waistcoat, and get that belt about you ; then take up the 
rest of the things and follow me : to-day you shall be the 
fiddler's boy, and not a living creature know you." 

The fiddler opened his wallet, and threw out the dis- 
guise to Berthold ; shut it hastily again ; painted his face 
with cranberries, and his beard and eyebrows with a bit 
of coal; and then they walked gayly on, the last quarter of 
an hour, towards the village. 

Evening was just coming on, and the sun broke out all 
at once from under the clouds ; the birds began to sing 
cheerfully ; the flowers opened their leaves as if to listen, 
and Berthold felt his clothes sooner dry than if he had 
been sitting close to a large fire. 

In a few minutes, our wanderers mingled with the merry 
wedding guests; noise and merriment were echoing all 
around ; and no one looked sad but Siegelind, who kept 
her tearful eyes fixed upon the ground. The old fiddler 
was welcomed with shouts of applause; the rain had pre- 
vented the arrival of the band of fiddlers and pipers who 
had been invited on the occasion, and every body pro- 



THE BITTER WEDDING. 83 

nounced it a piece of marvellous good luck for the wed- 
ding, that Master Almerich should have got through. 

" Now, children," exclaimed the old boy, ** fetch us 
something to drink, and some cheese and bread : and do 
not forget that youth who has dragged myself as well as 
my fiddle here to-day." 

The guests ran about to execute the old fiddler's com- 
mands ; and even Gertrude and Bernhard seemed well- 
pleased, and brought whatever was on the table. Poor 
Berthold's heart was bleeding: he kept, however, eating 
and drinking, that he might not be obliged to speak. 
Meanwhile the old fiddler put dry strings on his instru- 
ment, and began to tune it so stoutly that it thrilled 
through marrow and bone, and quickly drew the attention 
of all upon the musician. 

"Bless me!" whispered Bernhard to Gertrude; "upon 
my faith, it is the very dwarf who gave me the bewitched 
wine and cheese! Be gentle to him, wife, and say not a 
single word." 

All at once the fiddler struck up so stoutly and briskly 
upon his fiddle, that the very house shook : blow upon blow, 
he commenced such a furious strain, that the whole com- 
pany leaped up from their benches, and began dancing as 
if they were mad. " Heigh ! heigh! " shouted the people, 
*' there is a fiddle;" and every one capered and whirled 
through the wedding-chamber as if they danced for a 
wager. The young people led out the dance, and the old 
ones hobbled as fast after them as they could : nobody re- 
mained in her place but Siegelind, who wished herself 
ten thousand miles away from the merriment, and Ber- 
thold, who looked steadfastly and sorrowfully upon his 
beloved. 

In the midst of his fiddling, Master Almerich beckoned 
to the beautiful bride to step near to him — '' There stands 
a little bottle yonder, where your bridegroom has been 
seated, and some old cheese with it. I dare say it will 



84 THE BITTER WEDDING. 

not be the worst in the house. I would taste a little of it. 
This playing makes me a little nice in the palate." 

The good-natured bride was little interested in the pres- 
ervation of the precious articles. She brought them, and 
placed them upon a chair beside him, thinking the old 
man might take as much as he could eat. 

The dwarf quickly laid his fiddle aside, raised the be- 
witched bottle in his right hand, and the cheese in his 
left, and exclaimed, with a loud voice, "Well, my good 
people, well, here's the health of that beautiful bride there 
and her sweetheart : may she live long and joyfully." 

" Long and joyfully," resounded through the room, 
while fifty bonnets and hats were tossed up into the air. 

But horror-struck and deadly pale did Hildebrand, and 
Bernhard, and Gertrude, become, when they saw the won- 
drous wine and enchanted cheese in Almerich's uplifted 
fist. "Dares he — can he — will he?" darted through their 
hearts; but, wo and alas! in one turn of his hand, the 
glutton, with his large ox mouth, had swallowed the be- 
witched draught and marvellous cheese without leaving a 
morsel. 

A roar of passion from the red-haired Hildebrand, and 
a gush of tears from Gertrude, now terrified the people ; 
while old Bernhard stood like one petrified. A cheerful 
smile flew over the countenance of Siegelind, and Ber- 
thold rose boldly from his bench, and stood ready to use 
his fists upon Hildebrand if he should dare to touch the 
fiddler. 

"You rogue! you beggar!" at last exclaimed Hilde- 
brand, " v/ho told you to give that old fool of a fiddler that 
gift of Heaven? You may now give your house, and your 
bride, too, to the rabble. I do not care a straw more for 
you and all that remains to you." 

With words of venom and execration, Hildebrand rush- 
ed out of the room, while, silent and terrified, the outraged 
Bernhard and his crowd of guests looked after him. '* I 







A beautiful child lay on the ground."— /'ag^e 85. 



THE RUSTIC WREATH. 85 

am a dead man!" at last exclaimed Bernhard; '' my child 
and we are all ruined ; the wedding feast and the adorn- 
ments are all unpaid ! O cursed, horrid miser ! Bring me 
a knife — a knife ! " 

"A fig for a knife!" exclaimed the fiddler. "There 
the bridegroom has just come, and has brought with him a 
whole wallet full of gold ; and the bride loves him with all 
her heart ; and the guests are still together ; and my fid- 
dle is in glorious tune." 

With these words, Almerich crippled forward to the 
half bewildered and yet joyful Berthold, and drew him into 
the circle. He wiped his face with the skirt of his coat, 
and showed to the delighted bride and the astonished 
guests their well-known neighbor, who was dear and wel- 
come to all. The wallet was hastily dragged forward ; and, 
Almerich having quickly opened the lock, behold! pure 
red gold, in coins and chains, tumbled out from it, dazzling 
the eyes of all with their splendor. Old Bernhard and 
Gertrude embraced by turns the lovely Siegelind and the 
ugly dwarf Almerich took his fiddle, and struck up a 
tune, which bewitched them all ; and they danced till mid- 
night in joy and glory. The musician then escaped, and 
left a whole house full of merry-makers around the two 
happy lovers, who, till their last day, a thousand times, 
blessed the bitter wedding, in which they had been so won- 
derfully united by the benevolent lame dwarf 

J. R. Wyss. 



THE RUSTIC WREATH. 

I HAD taken refuge in a harvest field belonging to my 

good neighbor. Farmer Creswell. A beautiful child lay 

on the ground, at some little distance, whilst a young girl, 

resting from the labor of reaping, was twisting a rustic 

8 



86 THE RUSTIC WREATH. 

wreath — enamelled corn-flowers, brilliant poppies, snow- 
white lily-bines, and light, fragile hare-bells, mingled with 
tufts of the richest wheat-ears — around its hat. 

There was something in the tender youthfulness of these 
two innocent creatures, in the pretty, though somewhat 
fantastic, occupation of the girl, the fresh wild flowers, 
the ripe and swelling corn, that harmonized with the sea- 
son and the hour, and conjured up memories of "Dis and 
Proserpine," and of all that is gorgeous and graceful in old 
mythology ; of the lovely Lavinia of our own poet, and of 
the subject of that finest pastoral in the world, the far love- 
lier Ruth. But these fanciful associations soon vanished 
before the real sympathy excited by the actors of the scene, 
both of whom were known to me, and both objects of a 
sincere and lively interest. 

The young girl, Dora Creswell, was the orphan niece 
of one of the wealthiest yeomen in our part of the M'orld, — 
the only child of his only brother, — and, having lost both 
her parents whilst still an infant, had been reared by her 
widowed uncle, as fondly and carefully as his own son, 
Walter. He said, that he loved her quite as well, perhaps 
he loved her better ; for, although it were impossible for a 
father not to be proud of the bold, handsome youth, who 
at eighteen had a man's strength, and a man's stature, was 
the best ringer, the best cricketer, and the best shot in the 
county, yet the fair Dora, who, nearly ten years younger, 
was at once his handmaid, his housekeeper, his plaything, 
and his companion, was evidently the very apple of his 
eye. Our good farmer vaunted her accomplishments as 
men of his class are wont to boast of a high-bred horse 
or a favorite greyhound. She could make a shirt and a 
pudding, darn stockings, rear poultry, keep accounts, and 
read the newspaper ; was as famous for gooseberry wine as 
Mrs. Primrose, and could compound a syllabub with any 
dairy-woman in the county. There was not such a 
handy little creature any where ; so thoughtful and trusty 



THE RUSTIC WREATH. 87 

about the house, and yet, out of doors, as gay as a lark, 
and as wild as the wind : nobody was like his Dora. 
So said and so thought Farmer Creswell; and, before Dora 
was ten years old, he had resolved that, in due time, she 
should marry his son Walter, and had informed both par- 
ties of his intention. 

Now, Farmer Creswell's intentions were well known to 
be as unchangeable as the laws of the Medes and Per- 
sians. He was a fair specimen of an English yeoman, a 
tall, square-built, muscular man, stout and active, with a 
resolute countenance, a keen eye, and an intelligent smile: 
his temper was boisterous and irascible, generous and kind 
to those whom he loved, but quick to take offence, and 
slow to pardon, expecting and exacting implicit obedience 
from all about him. With all Dora's good gifts, the sweet 
and yielding nature of the gentle and submissive little girl 
was, undoubtedly, the chief cause of her uncle's partiality. 
Above all, he was obstinate in the very highest degree, 
had never been known to yield a point or change a resolu- 
tion ; and the fault was the more inveterate, because he 
called it firmness, and accounted it a virtue. For the rest, 
he was a person of excellent principle and perfect integ- 
rity ; clear-headed, prudent, and sagacious; fond of agri- 
cultural experiments, and pursuing them cautiously and 
successfully; a good farmer, and a good man. 

His son Walter, who was, in person, a handsome like- 
ness of his father, resembled him, also, in many points of 
character ; was equally obstinate, and far more fiery, hot, 
and bold. He loved his pretty cousin much as he would 
have loved a favorite sister, and might, very possibly, if 
let alone, have become attached to her as his father wish- 
ed : but to be dictated to, to be chained down to a distant 
engagement; to hold himself bound to a mere child, — the 
very idea was absurd ; and restraining, with difficulty, an 
abrupt denial, he walked down into the village, predis- 
posed, out of sheer contradiction, to fall in love with the 



88 THE RUSTIC WREATH. 

first young woman who should come in his way ; and he 
did fall in love accordingly. 

Mary Hay, the object of his ill-fated passion, was the 
daughter of the respectable mistress of a small endowed 
school at the other side of the parish. She was a delicate, 
interesting creature, with a slight, drooping figure, and a 
fair, downcast face, like a snow-drop, forming such a con- 
trast with her gay and gallant wooer, as Love, in his vaga- 
ries, is often pleased to bring together. The courtship 
was secret and tedious, and prolonged from months to 
years; for Mary shrank from the painful contest which 
she knew that an avowal of their attachment would occa- 
sion. At length her mother died; and, deprived of a home 
and maintenance, she reluctantly consented to a private 
marriage. An immediate discovery ensued, and was fol- 
lowed by all the evils, and more than all, that her worst 
fears had anticipated. Her husband was turned from the 
house of his father ; and, in less than three months, his 
death, by an inflammatory fever, left her a desolate and 
pennyless widow; unowned and unassisted by the stern 
parent, on whose unrelenting temper neither the death of 
his son, nor the birth of his grandson, seemed to make 
the slightest impression. But for the general sympathy 
excited by the deplorable situation and blameless deport- 
ment of the widowed bride, she and her infant must have 
taken refuge in the workhouse. The whole neighborhood 
was zealous to relieve and to serve them; but their most 
liberal benefactress, their most devoted friend, was poor 
Dora. Considering her uncle's partiality to herself as the 
primary cause of all this misery, she felt like a guilty 
creature; and casting off, at once, her native timidity and 
habitual submission, she had repeatedly braved his anger, 
by the most earnest supplications for mercy and for par- 
don ; and, when this proved unavailing, she tried to miti- 
gate their distresses by all the assistance that her small 
means would admit. Every shilling of her pocket-money 



THE RUSTIC WREATH. 89 

she expended on her dear cousms ; worked for them, beg- 
ged for them, and transferred to them every present that 
was made to herself, from the silk frock to a penny tartlet. 
Every thing that was her own she gave, but nothing of 
her uncle's ; for, though sorely tempted to transfer some 
of the plenty around her to those whose claim seemed so 
just, and whose need was so urgent, Dora felt that she 
was trusted, and that she must prove herself trustworthy. 

Such was the posture of affairs at the time of my en- 
counter with Dora and little Walter in the harvest field : 
the rest will be best told in the course of our dialogue : — 

"And so, madam, I cannot bear to see my dear cousin 
Mary so sick and so melancholy; and the dear, dear child, 
that a king might be proud of — only look at him ! " ex- 
claimed Dora, interrupting herself, as the beautiful child, 
sitting on the ground, in all the placid dignity of infancy, 
looked up at me, and smiled in my face. " Only look at 
him ! " continued she, " and think of that dear boy, and 
his dear mother, living on charity, and they my uncle's 
lawful heirs, whilst I, that have no right whatsoever, no 
claim, none at all — I that, compared to them, am but a far- 
off kinswoman, the mere creature of his bounty, should 
revel in comfort and in plenty, and they starving ! I can- 
not bear it, and I will not. And then the wrong that he 
is doing himself; he, that is really so good and kind, to be 
called a hard-hearted tyrant by the whole country side. 
And he is unhappy himself, too ; I know that he is. So 
tired as he comes home, he will walk about his room half 
the night ; and often, at meal times, he will drop his knife 
and fork, and sigh so heavily ! He may turn me out of 
doors, as he threatened ; or, what is worse, call me un- 
grateful or undutiful, but he shall see this boy." 

*'He never has seen him, then? and that is why you 
are tricking him out so prettily ? " 

" Yes, ma'am. Mind what I told you, Walter ; and 
hold up your hat, and say what I bid you." 
8* 



90 THE RUSTIC WREATH. 

" Gan-papa's fowers!" stammered the pretty boy, in his 
sweet, childish voice, the first words that I had ever heard 
him speak. 

" Grand-papa's flowers ! " said his zealous preceptress. 

'*Gan-papa's fowers!" echoed the boy. 

" Shall you take the child to the house, Dora?" asked I. 

''No, ma'am. I look for my uncle here every minute; 
and this is the best place to ask a favor in, for the very 
sight of the great crop puts him in good humor ; not so 
much on account of the profits, but because the land never 
bore half so much before, and it's all owing to his man- 
agement in dressing and drilling. 1 came reaping here 
to-day on purpose to please him ; for though he says he 
does not wish me to work in the fields, I know he likes it ; 
and here he shall see little Walter. Do you think he can 
resist him, ma'am?" continued Dora, leaning over her in- 
fant cousin, with the grace and fondness of a young Ma- 
donna ; *' do you think he can resist him, poor child, so 
helpless, so harmless ; his own blood too, and so like his 
father? No heart could be hard enough to hold out; and 
I am sure that his will not. Only," pursued Dora, relapsing 
into her girlish tone and attitude, as a cold fear crossed 
her enthusiastic hope — "only I'm half afraid that Walter 
will cry. It's strange, when one wants any thing to be- 
have particularly well, how sure it is to be naughty; my 
pets, especially. I remember when my lady countess 
came on purpose to see our white peacock, that we got in 
a present from India, the obstinate bird ran away behind 
a bean-stack, and would not spread his train, to show the 
dead white spots on his glossy white feathers, all we could 
do. Her ladyship was quite angry. And my red and 
yellow marvel of Peru, which used to blow at four in the 
afternoon, as regular as the clock struck, was not open at 
five, the other day, when dear Miss Julia came to paint it, 
though the sun was shining as bright as it does now. If 
Walter should scream and cry ! for my uncle does some- 



THE RUSTIC WREATH. 91 

times look so stern ; and tlien it's Saturday, and he has 
such a beard ! If the child should be frightened ! Be 
sure, Walter, that you don't cry," said Dora, in great 
alarm. 

" Gan-papa's fowers ! " replied the smiling boy, holding 
up his hat ; and his young protectress was comforted. 

At this moment, the farmer was heard whistling to his 
dog, in a neighboring field ; and, fearful that my presence 
might injure the cause, I departed, my thoughts full of the 
noble little girl and her generous purpose. 

I had promised to call the next afternoon, to learn her 
success; and, passing the harvest field in my way, found 
a group assembled there which instantly dissipated my 
anxiety. On the very spot where we had parted, I sa,w 
the good farmer himself, in his Sunday clothes, tossing 
little Walter in the air ; the child laughing and screaming 
with delight, and his grandfather apparently quite as much 
delighted as himself A pale, slender young woman, in 
deep mourning, stood looking at their gambols, with an 
air of intense thankfulness ; and Dora, the cause and the 
sharer of all this happiness, was loitering behind, playing 
with the flowers in Walter's hat, which she was holding in 
her hand. Catching my eye, the sweet girl came to me 
instantly. 

"I see how it is, my dear Dora; and I give you joy, 
from the bottom of my heart. Little Walter l3ehaved well, 
then ? " 

" O, he behaved like an angel ! " 

" Did he say 'Gan-papa's fowers' ? " 

" Nobody spoke a word. The moment the child took 
o(F his hat and looked up, the truth seemed to flash on my 
uncle, and to melt his heart at once ; the boy is so like his 
father. He knew him instantly, and caught him up in his 
arms, and hugged him, just as he is hugging him now." 

"And the beard, Dora?" 

" Why, that seemed to take the child's fancy : he put 



92 THE merchant's daughter. 

up his little hands and stroked it, and laughed in his 
grandfather's face, and flung his chubby arms round his 
neck, and held out his sweet mouth to be kissed ; and O 
how my uncle did kiss him ! I thought he would never 
have done ; and then he sat down on a wheat-sheaf, and 
cried ; and I cried, too. Very strange, that one should cry 
for happiness ! " added Dora, as some large drops fell on 
the rustic wreath which she was adjusting round Walter's 
hat. " Very strange," repeated she, looking up, with a 
bright smile, and brushing away the tears from her rosy 
cheeks, with a bunch of corn-flowers — "very strange, 
that I should cry, when I am the happiest creature alive ; 
for Mary and Walter are to live with us; and my dear 
uncle, instead of being angry with me, says that he loves 
me better than ever. How very strange it is," said Dora, 
as the tears poured down, faster and faster, " that I should 
be so foolish as to cry ! " 

Miss Mitford. 



THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 

Alvarez de Rameiro was the son of a Portuguese 
marquis, by an English lady of great beauty and consider- 
able fortune. The match was particularly obnoxious to 
the family of the nobleman; and Alvarez, at the death of 
his mother, found himself heir to her English estates, and 
to the cordial dislike of his Portuguese relations; but he 
was of a light heart and free spirit, and found an antidote 
to their coldness and neglect in his contempt for their 
opinion. It naturally followed, however, that he was often, 
as much " upon compulsion " as from choice, left to the 
society of his own reflections, which, as he possessed a 
tolerably well-stored mind and a clear conscience, were 
very endurable company. 



THE MERCHANT S DAUGHTER. Jf3 

In one of the solitary rambles, in which it was his wont 
to indulge, he found himself in the vicinity of the pleas- 
ure-grounds attached to a villa within a league of Lisbon, 
the country residence of a British merchant. As he 
approached the garden, which was separated from the 
road by a deep moat, he perceived, walking on a slight ele- 
vation or terrace, a young lady, whose form and counte- 
nance were so entirely to his taste, that his eyes followed 
her with an earnestness, which, had she observed it, might 
not have impressed her with a very favorable notion of his 
good manners. Whether he was desirous of quenching 
the incipient flame in his bosom, by rushing into the oppo- 
site element, or of arriving at his object by the shortest 
possible cut (overlooking in his haste the parenthesis of 
the ditch), it is neither possible nor essential for me to 
state ; but certain it is, that the lady was roused from her 
meditations by the noise of a sudden plunge in the water ; 
and, on turning round, she saw a portion of a mantle 
floating on the moat, and, immediately afterwards, the hap- 
less owner floundering about, either ignorant of the art of 
swimming, or incapacitated for efficient exertion by his 
cloak and appended finery. 

The lady did not shriek out, for she knew that the gar- 
dener was deaf, and that her cries would not reach the 
mansion : she did not tear her hair, for, unless she could 
have made a rope of it, there had been little wisdom in 
that; but she did better; she seized a rake, and, ap- 
proaching as near to the moat as she could, literally hook- 
ed him into shallow water, whence he was enabled to gain 
the terrace, where he stood before her dripping like a 
river-god, and sputtering thanks and duck-weed in great 
profusion. Never did human being present a more equivo- 
cal appearance than did Alvarez on this occasion, covered, 
as he was, with mud and weeds. The damsel, at the 
sight of him, scrambling up the bank, was almost induced 
to exclaim, with Trinculo, "What have we here? — a man 



94 THE merchant's daughter. 

or a fish?" And, indeed, until ''the creature found a 
tongue," it would have been no easy task for Linnaeus 
himself to determine the class of animals to which he be- 
longed. No meeting between fair lady and gallant knight 
could, by possibility, be more unromantic ; nay, 'twas the 
most common-place thing conceivable : whatever may 
have been the cavalier's sensations, she did not fall in love 
with him ; for her first impulse, on seeing him safely land- 
ed, was to laugh most incontinently ; and love, as my 
friend the corporal hath it, is "the most serious thing 
in life." 

" I pray you, senora," said Alvarez, as soon as he re- 
covered himself, " to accept my humblest apologies for in- 
truding upon you so extraordinary an apparition." 

" Apparition ! — nay, senor, you are encumbered, some- 
what too pertinaciously, methinks, with the impurities of 
earth to be mistaken for any thing of the kind ; unless you 
lay claim to the spiritual character on the score of your 
intangibility , which I have not the slightest inclination to 
dispute ; and as for your apologies, you had better render 
them to those unoffending fishes whose peaceful retreat 
you have so unceremoniously invaded; for you have raised 
a tempest where, to my certain knowledge, there has not 
been a ripple for these twelve months." 

" Indeed, fair lady, I owe them no apologies, since but 
for you I had been their food. Yon moat, although not 
wide enough to swim in, possesses marvellous facilities for 
drowning." 

At this instant, the merchant himself entered the 
grounds, and approached the scene of the interview 
His daughter immediately introduced her unbidden guest. 
" Allow me, my dear papa, to present to you a gentleman 
who brings with him the latest intelligence from the bot- 
tom of the moat. Behold him dripping with his creden- 
tials, and the bearer of a specimen of the soil, and a foAv 
aquatic plants peculiar to the region he has explored, and 



THE merchant's DAUGHTER. 95 

of which, having landed on your territories, lie politely re- 
quests you to relieve him." 

" You are a saucy jade," said the merchant; ''and, but 
that I know your freaks ever stop short of actual mischief, 
1 could almost suspect you of having pushed him in." 

" Nay, papa, that could not be ; we were on opposite 
sides of the moat." 

" You forget, lady," rejoined the cavalier, wno oegan 
to recover his spirits, " that attraction is often as powerful 
an agent as repulsion, and that therefore your father's con- 
jecture as to the cause of my misfortune may not be alto- 
gether groundless." 

" I beseech you, senor," said the daughter, '' to reserve 
your compliments for your next visit to the naiads of the 
moat, to whom they are more justly due, and cannot fail 
to be acceptable from a gentleman of your amphibious 
propensities. I hope our domestics will be careful in di 
vesting you of that plaster of mud : — I should like the 
cast amazingly." 

During this colloquy the party were approaching the 
mansion, where x\lvarez was accommodated with a tem- 
porary change of attire; and it is certain that, if the dam- 
sel was not captivated by his first appearance, her heart 
was still less in danger when she beheld him encased in 
her father's habiliments — " a world too wide " for him — 
the merchant being somewhat of the stoutest, while the 
fair proportions of his guest were not encumbered with 
any exuberance of flesh. 

Thus originated the acquaintance of Mr. Wentworth 
and his fair daughter with the most gallant of all Portu- 
guese cavaliers, Alvarez de Rameiro — an acquaintance 
which, as their amiable qualities mutually developed them- 
selves, ripened into friendship. Alvarez exhibited a frank- 
ness of manner which never bordered upon rudeness, and 
was equally remote from assurance ; while the liberality 
of his opinions indicated an elevation of mind that the 



96 THE merchant's daughter. 

bigotry amid which he had been educated had not been 
able to overthrow. These qualities well accorded with the 
straight-forward disposition of the Englishman, who proba- 
bly found them scarce in Lisbon, and rendered the society 
of the young foreigner more than ordinvirily agreeable 
to him. 

It happened, one afternoon in the summer, that the 
merchant and Alvarez were enjoying their glass of wine 
and cigar, while Mary Wentworth was attending to some 
plants in a grass-plot before the window. Mr. Wentworth 
had told his last story, which was rather of the longest; 
but, as his notions of hospitality, in furnishing his table, 
included conversation as well as refection, he made a 
point of keeping it up; and, with this general object, 
rather than any particular one, — for he had great simplici- 
ty of heart, — he filled his glass, and, passing the decanter to 
his guest, resumed the conversation. " It has occurred to 
me, Alvarez, that your attentions to my Mary have been 
somewhat pointed of late. Fili your glass, man, and don't 
keep your hand on the bottle : it heats the wine." 

" Then, sir, my conduct has not belied my feelings ; 
for I certainly do experience much gratification in Miss 
Wentworth's society, and her father is the last person 
from whom I should desire to conceal it." 

"Then have the kindness to push the cigar-dish a little 
nearer, for mine is out." 

" I hope, sir, that my attentions to your daughter have 
not been offensive to her." 

" I am sure I don't know, for I never asked her." 

" Nor to yourself, I trust." 

"No, or you would not have had so many opportunities 
of paying them." 

" They have occasioned you no anxiety or uneasiness, 
then, sir ? " 

"Nay, your own honor is my warrant against that; and 
I have the collateral security of her prudence." 



THE merchant's DAUGHTER. 97 

" May 1, then, without offence, inquire whither your 
observations tend, and why you have introduced the 
subject?" 

*' In the first instance, simply for want of something 
else to talk about ; but, now we are upon the subject, it 
may be as well to know your views in paying the atten- 
tions to which I have referred." 

" When I tell you honestly that I love your daughter, you 
will not, with the confidence you are pleased to place in 
my honor, have any difficulty in guessing them." 

" Guessing is not my forte, and therefore I ever hated 
riddles : they puzzle the understanding without improving 
it. Speak out." 

" Why, sir, with your sanction, to make her my wife." 

" Then you will do a very foolish thing ; that is, always 
supposing that my daughter has no objection to your 
scheme ; and we, both of us, appear to have left her pretty 
much out of the argument. Pray, is she aware at all of 
the preference with which you are pleased to honor her ? " 

" I have never told her, because I know not how she 
would receive the declaration ; and I prize your daughter's 
good opinion too dearly to desire to look like a simpleton 
before her." 

"Well, there's some sense in that. By the way, Alva- 
rez, without any particular reference to the subject we are 
discussing, let me exhort you, whenever you make a dec- 
laration of your love to a woman, never do it upon your 
knees." 

"Why not, sir?" 

" Because it is the most inconvenient position possible 
for marching off the field; and, in the event of a repulse, 
the sooner a man quits it the better." 

" But, sir, I maintain, and I speak it under favor, and 
with all deference to the sex, that the man who exposes 
himself to the humiliation of a refusal richly merits it." 

"As how?" 
9 



yy THE MERCHANT S DAUGHTER. 

" Because he must be blind, if he cannot, within a 
reasonable period, find out whether his suit be acceptable 
or not, and a fool if he declares himself before." 

" You think so, do you ? Then be so good as to push 
over that plate of olives ; and, as I said before, in refer- 
ence to your matrimonial project, I think it a very foolish 
one." 

"In what respect, sir, may I ask?" 

" In the first place, it is the custom in England for a 
man and his wife to go to church together ; and you were 
born a Catholic." 

" Only half a one, sir : my mother was a Protestant." 

" And a heretic." 

" No, sir : my sainted mother was a Christian." 

" You do not mean to call yourself a Protestant? " 

" I do, indeed, sir." 

" Then let me tell you, that your religion is the most 
unfashionable in all Lisbon, and somewhat dangerous 
withal." 

*' Have you found it so? " 

" Nay ; I am of a country which is given to resent as a 
nation an injury done to an individual member of it ; and 
as a British fleet in the bay of Lisbon would not be the 
most agreeable sight to the good folk of this Catholic city, 
I presume I may profess what religion I please, without 
incurring any personal risk : but you have no such safe- 
guard ; and, although my daughter might have no great 
objection to your goodly person as it is, she might not 
relish it served up as a grill, according to the approved 
method, in this most orthodox country, of freeing the spirit 
from its earthly impurities." 

" You talk very coolly, my dear sir, upon a rather 
warm subject ; but I assure you I am under no apprehen- 
sions on that score." 

" Well, admitting that you are justified in considering 
yourself safe, do you think that an alliance with the 



THE merchant's DAUGHTER. 99 

daughter of a merchant, and a foreigner, would be other- 
wise than obnoxious to your family?" 

"Why, as to that, my affectionate brothers-in-law, not 
reckoning upon the pleasure of my society in the next 
world, have not been at much pains to cultivate it in this: 
and therefore I apprehend I am not bound to consult their 
wishes in the matter." 

The conversation was here interrupted by the en- 
trance of Miss Wentworth; and the subject was of course 
changed. 

The explanation which had taken place between the 
merchant and Alvarez was followed by an equally good 
understanding between the latter and the young lady ; and 
it was finally arranged among them that Mr. Wentworth, 
who had been eminently successful in his commercial pur- 
suits in Lisbon, should only remain to close his accounts, 
and convert his large property into bills and specie, for 
the purpose of remitting it to London, when the whole 
party, Alvarez himself having no ties to bind him to his 
own country, should embark for England, where the union 
of the young people was to take place. 

But, alas ! " the course of true love never did run 
smooth ; " and scarcely had the preliminary arrangements 
been completed, when the merchant was seized with an in- 
flammatory fever, which terminated in his death, leaving 
his daughter, who loved him to a degree of enthusiasm 
which such a parent might well inspire, overwhelmed by 
sorrow, a stranger in a foreign land, and without a friend in 
the world but Alvarez, whose ability to protect her fell in- 
finitely short of his zeal and devotion to her service. Still, 
however, he could comfort and advise with her; and she 
looked up to him with all that confiding affection which 
the noble qualities of his heart, and the honorable tenor 
of his conduct, could not fail to create. But even he, her 
only stay, was shortly taken from her. The holy office, 
having gained information of their intention of quitting 
Lisbon with the property of the deceased merchant, avail- 



100 THE merchant's DAUGHTER. 

ed itselt of the pretext afforded by the religious profession 
of Alvarez to apprehend and confine him, as the most 
effectual means of delaying the embarkation, relying on 
ulterior measures for obtaining possession of the wealth 
of their victims. 

Mary Wentworth's v/as not a mind to sink supinely un- 
der misfortune, for she had much energy of character ; 
but this last blow was enough to paralyze it all. She had 
no difficulty to guess at the object of the holy office; and 
she knew that if any measure could avail her in this emer- 
gency, it must be speedily adopted. But the power of the 
inquisition was a fearful one to contend with. There was 
but one man in Lisbon who could aid her, and to him she 
was a stranger ; yet to him she determined to appeal. 

The name of Sebastian Joseph de Carvalho, marquis 
of Pombal, will be familiar, to those who are conversant 
with the history of Portugal, as that of the prime minister 
of King Joseph ; to which elevation he appears to have 
risen from circumstances of extreme indigence and the 
humble rank of a corporal. He is represented to have 
been a man of enlarged mind, uncommon personal cour- 
age, and great decision of character. On the other hand, 
he is said to have exhibited a haughty, overbearing spirit, 
to have executed justice with extreme severity, and evin- 
ced a cruel and ferocious disposition. It is, nevertheless, 
universally admitted, that, in the majority of his political 
acts, he had the good of his country at heart, which is evi- 
denced by the wisdom with which he met, and the suc- 
cess with which he alleviated, the public calamities con- 
sequent upon the earthquake at Lisbon in 1755 ; by the 
salutary restraints which he imposed upon an arrogant 
aristocracy, as well as upon the tyranny of the inquisition ; 
and by the decided measures by which he contributed to 
overthrow the power of the Jesuits. In person, he was 
of gigantic stature; and his countenance was so singular- 
ly marked and imposing, that a nobleman, who had open- 
ed his carriage door with the intention of assassinating 



THE merchant's DAUGHTER. 101 

him, was deterred from liis purpose by its awful and ter- 
rible expression. 

To this man, whom the boldest could not approach 
without awe, Mary Wentworth resolved to appeal. It was 
night when she presented herself at his palace, where she 
was refused admittance. While, however, she was parley- 
ing with the sentinel, Carvalho's steward, who had accom- 
panied his master on his embassy to the court of London, 
approached the gate, and, being interested by her English 
accent, caused her to be admitted. He inquired the nature 
of her business with the minister, which she briefly ex- 
plained to him. 

''Alas, my daughter," said the old man, " I fear your 
errand to Carvalho will prove a fruitless one. I may not 
safely procure you an interview ; but your countrymen, 
while I sojourned among them, were kind to me, and I 
would peril something to do you this service. Fol- 
low me." 

He preceded her up a flight of stairs, and, pointing to 
a door partly open, at the end of a long passage, he said, 
" There, in that room is he whom you seek : may God 
prosper your errand." With these words, he disappeared 
by a side-door, and Mary approached the apartment which 
he had pointed out as that of Carvalho. The door was 
suflficiently open to admit her ; and, entering, she found 
herself in a spacious and lofty room, from the ceiling of 
which depended a lamp immediately over the head of the 
man at whose frown all Lisbon trembled ; and when she 
beheld his gigantic form and ferocious countenance, she 
felt that nothing short of the stake which depended on the 
interview could induce her to persevere in seeking it. 

His head rested on his hand ; his brow was strongly 
knit ; and his eyes were intently fixed upon some papers. 
The rustling of her dress, as she drew near the table, at- 
tracted his attention. He did not start, but, raising his 
eyes, looked coldly and sternly upon her, and, without 
9* 



102 THE merchant's DAUGHTER. 

Uttering a word, appeared to wait for an explanation of so 
extraordinary an intrusion. 

Mary possessed shrewdness and discrimination enougli 
to perceive that, with a man of Carvalho's strengtli and 
decision of character, nothing was more likely to preju- 
dice her cause than circumlocution. She therefore enter- 
ed at once upon her story, and told it in the fewest possi- 
ble words, concluding with an appeal rather to his justice 
than to his feelings : and in this she did wisely. He lis- 
tened without interrupting her, or betraying in his counte- 
nance the slightest indication of the effect of her appeal. 
When she had ended, he waited a few moments, as if to 
ascertain if she had any thing more to say. His reply was 
— " Senora, were I to try my strength with the holy office 
upon every occasion of its oppression and injustice, I should 
have constant occupation, and gain little by the contest. I 
am not omnipotent : I have checked the power of the in- 
quisition, but I cannot crush it, or, credit me, not one stone 
of that hated edifice should stand upon another. Your case 
is hard, and I compassionate it; but I fear I can do nothing 
to aid you in obtaining redress. You say your father was 
a British merchant : what was his name ?" 

" Wentworth, senor." 

"Wentworth! I have good cause to recollect him. 
Of all my political opponents, that man, if not the most 
powerful, was the most persevering and unbending. I 
adopted certain measures which he considered to militate 
against the commerce of his country, and he combated 
tliem with all his might; but he did it like a man, boldly 
and open-handed. In the very heat of this controversy, 
when the feelings of both parties were at the height of 
their excitement, I was walking, unattended, in the streets 
of Lisbon, when a mob collected upon my path, and dark 
looks and threatening gestures were gathering around me. 
I am not a man to fly from a rabble : I frowned defiance 
;upon my assailants, who continued to press upon me; and 



THE merchant's DAUGHTER. 103 

some of them unsheathed their daggers. On a sudden, 
and from behind me, I was seized by a powerful hand, 
dragged into a house, the door of which was instantly 
closed, and found myself in the presence of your father. 
' Carvalho,' said he, 'you are my enemy and my country's; 
but you shall not die a dog's death while 1 can protect 
you.' He kept his word in defiance of the threats and 
imprecations of the rabble, declaring that they should pull 
his house upon his head ere they violated its sanctuary. 
A party of military at last arrived and dispersed the riot- 
ers. Your father, at parting, said with a smile, ' Now, 
Carvalho, we are foes again.' — And is he dead? — Then 
have I lost an enemy whom to bring back to earth I 
would freely surrender all who now call themselves my 
friends. Marvel not, lady, that I am somewhat rough and 
stern : ingratitude hath made me so. This city was once 
a ruin : gaunt famine was even in her palaces, and the 
cry of desolation in her streets. I gave bread to her fam- 
ishing people, raised her from the dust, and made her what 
you see ; but I sowed blessings, and curses were the harvest 
that I reaped. I have labored day and night for the good 
of this priest-ridden people ; and, because I have consult- 
ed their welfare rather than their prejudices, there is not a 
man in Lisbon who would not plunge his dagger into my 
heart, if he had courage for the deed. A sense of grati- 
tude to any human being is new to me, and, trust me, I 
will indulge it. The debt I owe your father, and which 
liis proud spirit would not permit me to acknowledge as I 
purposed, T will endeavor to repay to his child. Yet how 
to aid you in this matter T know not. I have to combat 
the most powerful engine of the church, which, on this oc- 
casion, will have the prejudices of the people on its side." 
The minister paced the room, for a few minutes, thought- 
fully and perplexed: at length he resumed — " The holy 
brotherhood are not wont to do their work by halves, and 
you will be their next victim. I know of but one way to 



104 THE merchant's DAUGHTER. 

save you, and him for whom you intercede : it is replete 
with peril, but it shall be dared. Go home to your dwell- 
ing; tell no one that you have seen me ; and, happen what 
may, I will be with you in the hour of danger, if it be to 
perish by your side." 

Alvarez had been a prisoner three days, during which 
his treatment was in no respect rigorous, when he was 
summoned before the inquisitor. The hall of audience, 
as it was termed, was a spacious chamber, in the centre 
of which, upon an elevation or platform, about three inches 
from the floor, was a long table, covered with crimson 
cloth : around it were placed chairs decorated with cross- 
es : at one end of it sat the inquisitor, and at the other the 
notary of the holy office. At the extremity of the cham- 
ber was a figure of the Saviour on the cross, which nearly 
reached the ceiling; and immediately opposite was a 
bench appropriated to the prisoners during their examina- 
tion. The inquisitor wore a kind of cap with a square 
crown : the notary and the prisoner were, of course, un- 
covered. Alvarez was first commanded to lay his hand 
on a Missal which was on the table, and swear that he 
would truly answer the interrogatories which might be put 
to him. He was then desired to sit down upon the bench 
which was at the left hand of the inquisitor, who, after a 
pause, said — " Senor Alvarez, you are doubtless aware of 
the accusation upon which you have been summoned be- 
fore this tribunal." 

" Conscious of no offence which should have subjected 
me to the loss of my liberty, I hesitate not to pronounce 
the accusation false, be it what it may." 

" You speak rashly, senor : the holy office is not wont 
to proceed upon slight grounds. I pray you, therefore, to 
examine your conscience, and see if — not recently, per- 
haps, but in the course of your life — you have never com- 
mitted any offence of which it is the peculiar province of 
the inquisition to take cognizance." 



THE merchant's DAUGHTER. 105 

" I can only repeat what I have already said ; and if 
any man have aught against me, let him stAnd forth." 

** The holy office, for wise reasons, does not confront 
the accuser and accused, as is the custom in ordinary 
courts ; neither is it our wont to declare the nature of the 
charge, which we rather refer to the conscience of the de- 
linquent : but, willing that you should meet, with as little 
delay as may be, the accusation which has been brought 
against you, I will read it. It recites that, having been 
born of an English mother, you have embraced the tenets 
of the falsely-called reformed religion, to the danger of 
your own soul and the scandal of the true faith ; that you 
have of late been in habits of close intercourse with a 
pestilent heretic of the same country, since dead, and that 
you are on the point of marriage with his daughter, also a 
heretic, contrary to the canons of our holy church. This, 
Senor Alvarez, is the charge : what have you to urge 
against its truth ? " 

" God forbid that, in hesitating to confess what I believe 
to be the true faith, I should deny its divine Author. You 
have reproached me with my English parentage ; and if 
the religion of Cranmer, of Ridley, and of Latimer, be 
heresy, then am I a heretic ; and, if the cup which was 
presented to their lips may not pass from mine, may God 
give me grace to drink it as they did, holding fast by the 
faith to which I have linked my hopes of Heaven's 
mercy ! " 

" Nay, Senor Alvarez, the holy office is not willing 
that any should perish, but rather rejoiceth in the exercise 
of that mercy which is in its discretion ; and, although 
the offence of which you have confessed yourself guilty, 
hath incurred the penalty of a death of ignominy and tor- 
ture, we have power, by deferring the execution of the 
sentence, to give you time to repent; so that, upon a renun- 
ciation of your errors, you may finally be pardoned, and 
received into the bosom of the church. By a law, where- 



106 THE merchant's DAUGHTER. 

by the goods of heretics are confiscated, those of the de- 
ceased merchant, Wentworth, become the property of the 
church; and as, from your connection with him and his 
daughter, you cannot but be informed of the nature and 
disposition of his wealth, I call upon you, as you would 
propitiate the holy office by assisting in securing its 
rights, to put it in possession of all you know upon the 
subject." 

" Behold," said Alvarez, with a burst of indignation 
which startled the inquisitor, " the cloven foot of the evil 
one. Now listen to me. The robber of the mountains 
hath kept faith, and the lion of the desert hath spared his 
prey ; but with the minions of the inquisition there is 
neither faith nor mercy. I know that he upon whom 
your dungeons have once closed, stands upon the brink of 
the grave, and that his life is beyond human ransom. 
Were I to answer the question you have so insidiously 
proposed, I should not only betray the trust reposed in me 
by a dying father, and make his child a beggar, but I 
should strengthen the hands of an institution which, if its 
power were equal to its will, would make this beauteous 
world a howling wilderness. I will neither betray my 
trust nor deny my faith : by God's grace, the last act of 
my life shall not involve the double guilt of treachery and 
apostasy." 

During this speech, the countenance of the inquisitor 
was gradually losing that hypocritical expression of mild- 
ness, under which those holy functionaries were accustom- 
ed to mask the most cruel and vindictive feelings : his 
face became flushed with rage, and he exclaimed, when 
Alvarez had finished, "You vaunt it bravely, senor. We 
will now try that persuasive power which is wont to make 
our guests marvellously communicative." 

'' You may wring the blood-drops from my heart, but 
you will not rob it of its secret." 

** Away with him to the torture," roared the inquisitor, 



THE merchant's DAUGHTER. ]07 

and immediately quitted the apartment, while Alvarez was 
conducted by another door, and through a long passage, 
into a spacious chamber, from which the light of day was 
entirely excluded. The lamp, which was suspended from 
the centre of the ceiling, was just sufficient to render dis- 
tinct the tribunal of the inquisitor, the instruments of tor- 
ture, and the familiars who were appointed to apply them, 
and whose grim, pale features and frightful habiliments im- 
parted additional horror to the scene. The remoter parts 
of the room were involved in darkness. Alvarez looked 
towards the tribunal, and immediately recognized the in- 
quisitor by whom he had been previously examined, and 
who now addressed him with a taunting smile, and said, 
"Well, Senor Alvarez, we have met again: have you 
brought your boasted courage with you?" 

" He who hath laid this trial upon me, and for whose 
truth I suffer, will give me strength to bear it." 

" You will need it all, senor, when your turn shall come ; 
but we do all things in order : we have one here before 
you, by whose example you may profit. Bring forward 
the other prisoner ! " 

Alvarez turned his eyes in the direction in which the 
inquisitor looked as he spoke, and, with feelings of agony 
and horror which no language can adequately describe, he 
beheld in the intended victim his own Mary. A shriek 
proclaimed that her feelings at the mutual recognition 
were not less acute than his; and she fell back, apparently 
lifeless, into the arms of her terrific attendants. 

Alvarez turned to the inquisitor, and addressed him, for 
the first time, in the tone of supplication. ''If," said he, 
'' there be one instrument of torture more dreadful than 
another, let me be its victim : tear me piecemeal, limb 
from limb : but, for the sake of Him whose all-seeing eye 
is upon you, spare, O spare this beauteous work of his 
hands. Oh, if you have a human heart, you cannot look 
upon such loveliness and mar it. Oh, if yon image of 



i08 THE merchant's DAUGHTER. 

the blessed Jesus be not set up in bitter mockery of his 
meekness and his mercy, I beseech you harm her not." 

"Nay, senor," replied the inquisitor, with a laugh of 
irony, "you diew so captivating a portrait of our mercy 
in the hall of audience, that it were gross injustice in us to 
prove it false. Let the torture be applied to the female 
prisoner." 

The preparations to obey the mandate aroused Mary 
Wentworth from her swoon ; and a faint, and, of course, 
ineffectual struggle was all she could oppose to the appli- 
cation of the first instrument of torture intended to be 
used, namely, the thumb-screw. It was, therefore, soon 
fixed, and the attendants waited the word from the inquisi- 
tor to draw the cords. This he was in the act of giving, 
when, from the gloom in which the extremity of the room 
was involved, a voice of thunder exclaimed, " Forbear ! " 
and immediately the speaker advanced to the front of the 
tribunal, his arm, however, enveloped in the folds of his 
mantle, concealing his face to the eyes. 

The inquisitor angrily inquired who it was that presum- 
ed to interrupt the proceedings of the court, and directed 
the attendants to seize him. The stranger spoke not a 
word, but, slowly dropping his arm, discovered the stern 
and haughty countenance of Carvalho. The inquisitor 
started as if a spectre had risen up before him, but im- 
mediately recovered himself. 

" Senor Carvalho," said he, " this visit is an honor for 
vv'hich we were not prepared : may I beg to be informed 
of its object? " 

" Simply the liberation of these prisoners." 

"Upon what authority do you demand it?" 

" My own will." 

" Much as we respect that, senor, it were scarcely suf- 
ficient warrant to us for their surrender. The circum 
stances under which they were arrested are such as utterly 
to preclude us from according to you the courtesy you ask." 



109 

"As for your respect, I know well the standard by 
which to measure it. The circumstances attending their 
arrest have been reported to me, and leave me at no loss 
to account for your reluctance to give them up; and as for 
your courtesy, I pray you keep it until it be asked. I did 
not come to sue for their liberty, but to demand it." 

" It may not be, senor ; the prisoners must pass to their 
trial, where they will have justice." 

" Oh, doubtless ! " said Carvalho, with a bitter smile, 
" such justice as the wolf metes out to the lamb, and the 
vulture to the dove." 

"I pray you, senor, to reflect upon the unseasonable- 
ness of a jest upon an occasion like this." 

" In good sooth, jocularity is not my wont, or a jest 
within the torture-room of the holy office, from any other 
than an inquisitor, would possess too much of the charm 
of novelty to be forborne. But, credit me, I was never 
more in earnest than I am now. Be this the proof Be- 
fore I ventured to obtrude myself into your reverend pres- 
ence, I left instructions with the commandant of artillery, 
in obedience to which, if I be not with him in half an hour, 
he will open a fire upon your walls. Now I depart not 
alone; and you, who best know how the light of day will 
accord with the secrets of your dungeons, will make your 
election between surrendering the prisoners or seeing this 
edifice a smoking ruin." 

''Senor Carvalho," said the inquisitor, who had witness- 
ed too many awful instances of the minister's veracity, as 
well as of his power, to doubt, for a moment, that his 
threat, if disregarded, would be fulfilled with a terrible 
punctuality, "in yielding to this extraordinary exercise of 
power, I feel it my duty, in the name of the holy office, 
solemnly to protest against this interference with its privi- 
leges; and you will not be surprised, if, in our own justifi- 
cation, we find it expedient to appeal to the pope." 

"So did the Jesuits; and in order that their memorial 
10 



110 THE merchant's DAUGHTER. 

might not miscarry, I sent the appellants after it by ship 
loads, until his holiness heartily wished the appeal and the 
locusts that followed it in the Red Sea. You will do wise- 
ly to profit by the warning which their example should 
convey to you." 

Having said this, he turned towards Alvarez and Mary 
Wentworth, and, passing an arm of each through his own, 
led them unmolested through the several gates of the 
prison. Mary glanced at his countenance, and perceived 
that the sardonic smile, which had marked it while in the 
presence of the inquisitor, had passed away, leaving in its 
place his wonted sternness, softened, she thought, by some- 
what more of solemnity than she had hitherto observed 
him to assume. He walked on between them in silence 
until they arrived within a few paces of the principal 
street in Lisbon, when he stopped, and said — " Here we 
part: I have risked my power, and, it may be, my life, to 
save you. But be that my care : all I ask of you is, get 
you out of this city, for it is no abiding place for either of 
you. There is an English vessel in the bay; this officer," 
beckoning to him a person in uniform, whom, for the first 
time, they observed standing within a ^ew yards of them, 
" will assist you in getting your effects on board : follow 
them with all despatch : for twenty-four hours you are 
safe : beyond that time I will not answer for your lives. 
Let me hear of your arrival in England. May God bless 
and keep you! Farewell!" He pressed the hand of 
each, and they saw him no more. 

It is scarcely necessary to add that the advice was fol- 
lowed : before half of the allotted time had expired, they 
were on their voyage, which proved safe and prosperous. 

W. H. Harrison. 



LORELEY. Ill 



LORELEY, A RHINE LEGEND. 

From yon rock's topmost height, 

Where sleeps the fair moonshine, 
Looks down a lady bright, 

On the dark-flowing Rhine. 

She looketh down and over ; 

She looketh far and wide, 
Where'er the white sails hover : — 

Youth, turn thine eyes aside ' 

Fair though her smiles be to thee, 

Beware the spell she flings } 
She smiles but to undo thee ; 

With siren heart she sings. 

She looketh on the river 

As if she looked on thee : 
Heed not the false deceiver 

Be deaf, be blind, and flee. 

For thus she looks on strangers all 

With witching eyes and bright. 
While her streaming locks around her fall 

In a dance of golden light. 

The light it doth resemble 

The deep wave's deadly gleam — 
As deep and icy. Tremble 

To trust the treacherous stream. 

An aged huntsman sat on a mossy stone, by the cave 
of Goar, close to the banks of the Rhine, and sung these 
verses to the gentle murmur of the river, whose waves 
bore a small boat, in which a youth was seated. The frail 
bark had nearly reached the Bank, a dangerous whirlpool 
in that part of the river, which calls forth all the art of 
the helmsman to avoid being carried down in it ; but the 



1]2 LORELEY. 

beautiful youth, heedless, or unconscious of his danger, 
kept his eyes steadily fixed on the summit of a high rock, 
whence a lovely female form looked down, and seemed to 
smile sweetly upon him. 

The old huntsman raised his voice when he beheld the 
young man's peril: but he heard not the warning : his lute, 
his oar, and his cross-bow, had all dropped unnoticed into 
the stream, and nought remained to the entranced youth 
but his cap and swan plume, which was fastened by a rib- 
bon to his neck, while the increasing rush and roar of the 
waters rendered his situation more perilous, and the voice 
of the huntsman less audible. It was the lovely maiden, 
who sat on the top of the rock, that engrossed the youth's 
whole thought and sense. She seemed to gather glittering 
pebbles from the rock, and ever and anon to cast them 
merrily down into the water, where they vanished in the 
shining foam. The youth thought that the beautiful 
maiden was smiling upon him ; and he sat motionless, with 
his arms stretched out towards her, gazing upon her as on 
a star, till his little skiff was borne upon the sharp rocks, 
and the whirlpool threw its gigantic arms around the youth, 
and drew him to its breast. But the lovely Loreley only 
looked down upon the scene as if it pleased her, and, 
smiling like a child from under her beautiful long hair, 
threw down fresh pebbles into the boiling whirlpool. 

The huntsman raised his bugle-horn, and blew so wild- 
ly on it, that his hounds began to howl around him, and 
some fishermen, who were occupied at a distance catch- 
ing salmon, rowed towards him ; but the youth was sunk 
beyond recovery, deep, deep in the whirlpool. Then 
the huntsrrian said to the fishers, " Did you see how the 
witch up yonder rejoiced over the destruction of this poor 
youth 1 how she bent her ear and listened to the roar of 
the waves whilst they sucked him in, and hissed over him, 
as if they mocked his silly love?" But a young fisher- 
man answered, " Is the maiden who sits up there on the 



LORELEY. 1 13 

hy* to blame if an imprudent boy should gaze on her 
with those eyes wliich he never should have turned avi^ay 
from the vi^aters? She did not send the whirlpool to meet 
him : he himself rushed into his own grave." Then the 
fishermen told the huntsman how sometimes, in the still 
evenings, the beautiful fairy had appeared to them, sitting 
quite close on the banks of the river ; and how she had 
beckoned them with friendly smiles to go hither and thither 
with their nets; and how they always drew their nets up 
abundantly filled with fishes, when they followed her direc- 
tions. *' But if you venture to approach her," said they, — 
"and who would not desire to do so? she is so beautiful, — 
she gets angry, and vanishes like a mist. Whether she 
rises up into the air, or plunges down into the deep, no- 
body can tell ; and nobody knows who and what she is." 

Shaking his head, the old huntsman went away, in the 
darkling evening, to the other side, towards Bacharach. 
Close to this town stood Stahleek, a castle where i\\Qpfalz- 
grqff resided. Many tales had been told at the castle of 
the marvellous lady, who sometimes, in the twilight, or 
when the moon shone, would appear on the rock; but 
none of the pfalzgraf's household had ever seen her; and 
he often warned them not to let themselves be led away by 
vain curiosity, remarking that he whom God preserved 
from all intercourse with such phantoms of hell, should 
rejoice in his mercy, and entertain no wish that it were 
otherwise. 

But the son of the pfalzgraf, a beautiful youth, whom 
it seemed as if the spring had chosen for its harbinger, 
and who changed all into spring wherever he looked and 
smiled, had often turned his eyes wistfully towards the 
place from which came the wonderful tales of Loreley. 
Yet he dared not go thither ; for his father and mother had 
become aware of his feelings, having been told by his 

* On the Rhine, a slate rock is called a ley. \ A judge. 

10* 



114 LORELEY. 

playfellows what a picture he had drawn of the fairy, and 
how all his thoughts and wishes were directed towards 
her. Whatever came to his knowledge regarding her, was 
never forgotten again, but stood forever "in transparent 
beauty before his imagination, which would sometimes 
picture her seated high upon the rock, surrounded by 
party-colored snakes, and green lizards, which crept about 
among the glittering stones: and ants, which came in long 
troops, as if they W'ere carrying gifts to her ; while the full 
moon showered down red gold into her lap. Sometimes, 
when all around the banks and the river was veiled in 
twilight, he thought he saw Loreley standing there in the 
rosy solitude, singing her monotonous song, while beneath 
her the Rhine flowed on with lonely murmurings, and the 
timid birds, awaking from time to time, flew up into the 
air, and the late evening glow still hovered above the tops 
of the mountains. 

The same evening on which the huntsman came to 
Stahleek, Hagbert — for such was the name of the son of 
the pfalzgraf — was seated, with his sister, Wana, on the de- 
clivity of the neighboring Kiihlberg, opposite the Voights- 
berg, upon whose sunny sides the costly vine prospers. 
They saw the boats passing over the water, and many 
beautiful spots reflected on the river like the looks of love 
and of longing. Many a tale they had told to one another ; 
and now the brother and sister sat holding each other's 
hand in silence. Wana was Hagbert's confidant, and she 
knew wherefore he sighed, and breathed so ardently to- 
wards the distant vapor, under whose golden and blue 
veil the mountains seemed to heave like a bosom, in which 
many a sweet and many a painful secret is concealed. All 
around was silent : the trees moved as if they were lulling 
one another to sleep ; the odorous pinks and violets near 
the rock shut their eyes; the little brooks alone continued 
to beat and murmur like the veins of life in a dream: be- 
hind the darkling trees and bushes, the tops of the gilded 



LORELEY. 115 

forest shot up, and a sliower of red sparkles seemed to fall 
upon the grass, and to inflame it. Suddenly the moon rose 
behind the mountains, and all at once every thing seemed 
to burn in clear and enchanted light. '' There is Loreley," 
said Hagbert. " She smiles to us. Do you hear how she 
calls ? " It was only a bird screaming through the red 
moonlight night. But Wana drew her brother up from 
his seat, and said, trembling, "It is time, my brother, that 
you bring me home to my mother. Let us not again be 
seated here so late and alone on the declivity; for the 
charm draws you down, down, and I tremble for you and 
for myself" 

At the castle they were talking of what had lately been 
said of the beautiful Loreley, when Wana, in the hand 
of her brother, and a little afraid of the reproof of her 
mother, entered the hall, where her parents were seated to- 
gether, as was their custom at night time. The youth 
listened in silence to every word which was spoken. "If 
she is a witch, this wild Loreley," exclaimed Ruthard, a 
knight of the palatine, "she must be thrown into the fire, 
were she even as beautiful as the evening star yonder." 
Then Haorbert sighed, and, leanincr on his father's chair, 
bent over his neck, and said, " Let me catch her, father. 
I do not fear. If she is a witch, I will bring her to you ; 
but if there can be found no guilt in her, and if she does 
not willingly do harm to any one, you will give her to me, 
and she shall be my own love." Hereat all who were 
present laughed aloud ; but the pfalzgraf answered, " Peo- 
ple say Loreley is a cunning fisher : she spreads out a glit- 
tering, wily net ; but as for you, my son, you are a young 
inexperienced little fish, and had better keep at a distance 
from her. Curiosity and the forbidden fruit often excite 
youth to wish for a thing which they throw away as soon 
as it is in their possession. If even the ghostly lady 
should be no monster, she is most probably a mermaid ; 
and a man shall hold no communion with such creatures. 



116 LORELEY. 

God has placed them m another house of nature, and 
their enmity visibly appears as soon as man approaches 
that which nature has designed should remain at a dis- 
tance from him." " There are plenty of tales told," re- 
plied Ruthard, *' from which it seems that such intercourse 
has brought harm and perdition over both ; and it seems 
to me no guilt to kill such a creature, who tries to insnare 
men with siren love." "One may quietly pass by," said 
the countess; "for the v/ater-nymph is said to be a crea- 
ture without reason ; but man ought not to follow blind 
instinct, if he does not wish to do so." " I shall not lend 
you my cross-bow, Ruthard," exclaimed Hagbert, " if 
your speeches are meant for the poor fair Loreley." " We 
have talked enough," interrupted the palatine, desir- 
ing the priest to say the evening prayers. But Hagbert 
slept uneasily the whole night. It seemed certain to him, 
that they would attack Loreley ; and he fancied he saw the 
arrow in her breast, and her blood flowing like a coral 
string down the dark rock into the deep Rhine. 

One of the following days, several strangers came to 
visit the castle ; and Hagbert and his hunting com- 
panions conducted the merry sportsmen through ravines 
covered with vines into the green foliage of the forest of 
beeches ; but the pfalzgraf had secretly ordered Ruthard 
to pay attention to Hagbert, lest his curiosity should lead 
him after more witching game. Nevertheless, it so hap- 
pened that Hagbert got out of sight of his companion, and 
suddenly disappeared. He yet heard the bugle-horns call- 
ing him back ; but the sounds came from a great distance, 
and Hagbert's heart beat violently, like the young eagle's, 
when he no longer hears the wings of the old one around 
him. Without thinking of what he intended to do, he 
hastened on as quickly as he could. Sometimes it seemed 
to him as if he truly intended to catch the mermaid, and 
thus accomplish the will of his father; and sometimes 
he fancied himself called upon to protect her, as if he had 




;"here stood the maiden, gleaming all silver white m the light of the moon."— Pa^-e 117. 



LORELEY. 117 

long ago seen her and loved her. He now stepped down a 
ravine. It was at the bending of the river, where it turns 
into the silent rocky solitude ; the turrets of Oberwesel 
and the watch-towers of Schonberg glittered behind him; 
the last light of day, like a dying flame, played around 
their tops ; whilst over the mountains the first rosy beams 
of moonlight appeared like as on that evening when Hag- 
bert and Wana looked down from the Klihlberg. 

But from beyond, a wonderful sound was heard, inces- 
santly repeated, which those who deeply listened to did 
not perceive was always the same note, and sweet tunes 
seemed to float in the air around him, like the distant and 
enchanting call of love. Hagbert looked around ; and, 
when he saw nothing, he thought how that bird could be 
called which sings sweeter than a nightingale. Some 
young people from Oberwesel were now close by him : the 
water sparkled beneath their oars around the boat, and 
Hagbert heard them say, " That is Loreley." He then 
cried to them, "I am the son of the pfalzgraf, and 
would like to be rowed a little in the light of the moon. 
Will you ferry me over?" With these words, he sprung 
into the boat with his bow and his arrow, his locks stream- 
ing loosely in the wind around his temples and his neck. 
*' Now, row me over to the rock, where Loreley sings," 
exclaimed he; "pull off; show me the fair Loreley." 

The young men rowed on, and soon showed him the 
rock whence the sweet voice resounded. There stood the 
maiden, gleaming all silver white in the light of the 
moon, and twining in her golden hair a wreath of water- 
flowers and reeds, which she had gathered in the Rhine, 
while, ever as her hands moved, she kept singing, "Lor- 
eley — Loreley — Loreley ! " 

*'Row me thither, row me thither!" exclaimed Hagbert; 
but the helmsman kept at a distance, and said, "It would 
be the death of you." Then Hagbert replied, " Well, be 
thou my death, or I catch thee alive, my lovely maiden ; 
and never shall I part with thee again, nor thou with me ! 



1 18 LORELEY. 

What! do you delay? " called he again to the young man. 
" Do you not know my father has sent me to catch the mer- 
maid ? Therefore I came with my bow and arrows," The 
rowers bent to their oars, and the old steep rock soon threw 
its shadow over the boat; but again the boatmen paused, 
and warned the rash youth of his danger. 

The fair Loreley had opened her bright eyes : her 
long, luxuriant ringlets fell undulating down her shoulders, 
as if longing to leap with her into the waters to entangle 
the youth : she remained standing at the edge, her song 
was silenced, and she looked as if partially revealed from 
a dim mist. The young men now called on Hagbert to 
place his arrow on the string, as the witch was just stand- 
ing fair for a mark ; but he took off his weapons, and 
threw them into the Rhine, calling out, " Be not afraid, 
lovely maid; no harm shall be done to you; but mine you 
must be, and I am yours forever! " At these words, those 
who held the oars shuddered, and began to be afraid lest 
they also should lose their senses, like the son of the pfalz- 
graf, and so all of them find their death on the spot. 
Therefore they held off the rock as much as they could, 
and bent their oars stoutly against the waters. But Hag- 
bert, endeavoring to spring over to the edge of the rock, 
missed his step, and sunk down into the waters, and after 
him, with a sweet and mournful scream, plunged the siren 
into the flood, as if a silvery beam from the rock had sud- 
denly glittered over the stream. But the young men fled 
away, and only thought of saving their own lives. '' What 
shall we do?" they exclaimed; " shall we tell the palatine 
that his son found his death in the Rhine? And if we 
conceal it, a still worse suspicion falls upon us; for it can- 
not remain secret : so let us just say that he hired and 
forced us to bring him hither, pretending that his father 
had sent him to kill the mermaid ; and that she bewitched 
him when he was taking up his weapon, — which is all 
the truth." 

When Hagbert opened his eyes, it seemed to him as if 



LORELEY. 119 

he had awoke in the midst of winter, and as if blue and 
green pieces of ice stood like giants around him ; but a 
gentle spring breeze blew through the crevice of the rock, 
and sweetly fanned his cold cheeks. What the boy 
thought was cold ice, was quartz and transparent crystal ; 
and the breeze was Loreley's breath, which played around 
him like the sighing wave. Forests of rushes and other 
aquatic plants rustled around the cave ; and through the 
crystal walls resounded, incessantly, sweet sounds, as if 
the waves were sighing their love to one another. 

In this deep world Hagbert found himself alone with 
the beautiful mermaid; but he could not feel comforted 
here in the midst of those frightful wonders ; and soon he 
longed, almost more impatiently than he had formerly done, 
to throw himself into the water, to see again the light of 
the day, as if it was only there that he could rejoice in the 
sight of the beautiful fairy, and exchange love for love. 
He said to her, when she threw around him her silver- 
white arms, and when her ringlets floated around him like 
the waves of the stream, " Only where the sun of heaven 
shines upon us can I rejoice in your sight! " So she took 
his hand, and led him along a narrow rocky path. It grew 
darker and darker around him, and waving flowers seemed 
to shoot down from an immeasurable height into the lonely 
depth. " The hills and vales are still slumbering," said 
Loreley, "but the sky does not shut his eyes for so long a 
time : do you see how they glance down upon us? " And 
again the wild floods rushed around Hagbert. " Let not 
your foot glide," said Loreley ; " come, sit down here, 
close by my side, till the sun rises," 

A white cliff glittered in pale light before Hagbert; but 
it seemed to be assailed by agitated waters, which heaved 
to and fro among huge mountain-like forms, and threat- 
ened also the spot where he stood in the silent night. 
"Where are we?" inquired Hagbert, and felt, not with- 
out a shudder, Loreley's arms surrounding him. "We 



120 LORELEY. 

are in the midst of the Rhine," said the maid. " These 
are the ancient children of the giants, the mountains: 
we are seated on the toe of one of them : and it is so 
long that he stretches it out like an angle for the ships 
which so merrily go up and down the Rhine. He draws 
them down at the stone yonder ; and yonder where I look 
to, up the river, the wrecks appear again ; but no living 
being ever re-appears there : they have all been swallowed 
— swallowed." 

At the opposite side a small light now appeared : it was 
a lamp before an altar in the church of St. Clement, on 
the opposite shore. The feeble glimmer glided slowly 
through the country, throwing here and there a beam; and 
Hagbert thought he could discern the Mauserthurm quite 
near ; and before and behind him, upon the heights, he saw 
some well-known castles. "Do you know," said Loreley, 
as if she had perceived his distrusting fears, " I have been 
leading you up the stream : the waters were carrying you 
down : there my kinsmen would never have let you out 
again from the crystal castle ; but you shall remain mine ; 
for you I left the beautiful castle : all my longing was for 
you." " Loreley," exclaimed Hagbert, — and, as he glanc- 
ed on her countenance, her flowing ringlets in the night 
breeze looked again so beautiful, with the light from be- 
yond the river falling upon them, — "they say you rejoice 
there above, upon yon rock, when your wild river draws a 
man down." 

Loreley sighed, and said, "It may be so, dear youth: 
I did not know better ; I thought it must give pleasure to 
all to sport with us, and to get fresh and cool in our re- 
sounding transparent world." " They also say," replied 
Hagbert, " that you allure the children of men with your 
sweet song." " I do not care at all for the children of 
men," said Loreley, peevishly ; "for my pleasure I sang ; 
for my pleasure T gazed. I called none, and looked for 
none. If any one thought that I called for him, it some- 



LORELET. 121 

times amused me, and I had my sport with them without 
thinking of it. But now, alas! all is changed: no sport 
will any more rejoice me. It is you I have chosen ; it is 
you whom I will draw down into the deep — you, whom I 
will follow through the world ; for I am yours, and you are 
mine. When you approached with bow and arrow, I felt 
as if I wished to be a roe, and to have your arrow in my 
heart, and to fly before you till I had drawn you to the 
highest top of the rock, where you should have been 
alone with me." 

From near and far now flamed up the first morning 
light over the white rocks : their tops glittered in the first 
dawning of the morning, whilst below them the two lovers 
were still seated. Hagbert held the beautiful maid in his 
arms : she leaned her head upon his breast ; but, when the 
cocks began to crow at the shore, she started up, and said, 
" I must go. There, where you have found me, you will 
find me again at evening-time. Do not forget." She then 
threw a stone into the water, which became troubled, boil- 
ed, and gushed up, and a small boat appeared working its 
way to the surface. " Leap into it," exclaimed Loreley : 
"one of the boards was broken in sinking: take it up, and 
make use of it for an oar, and row to the shore. Fare- 
well, Hagbert!" With these words she plunged down; 
and Hagbert, now in the boat, saw her no longer. But 
below him there sounded a murmuring voice — " Loreley, 
Loreley ! " till it seemed as if tears at last stifled the long- 
ing sound. 

The frail boat carried Hagbert with as much security 
over the dangerous spot as if a careless, playful child had 
been intrusted to its care ; and he reached the shore to 
the right, where castle Ehrenfels glittered in the morning 
glow over the merry vines. In the morning beam, Hag- 
bert awoke gradually from the dreams of the night : he 
was astonished, and knew not how he felt; doubt and 
sweet mystery, desire and horror, struggled in him ; Lor- 
11 



1*22 LORELEY. 

eley's countenance appeared before him, such as it had 
smiled upon him in the light of the lamp from the church; 
and it seemed to him as if he should have placed her in 
the full glare of that light, and all fear would have fled : 
then he thought again how the crov/ing of the cock had 
frightened her away ; and he felt as if a ghost had been 
seated near him in the horrors of the night, and wondered 
that his adventure had not cost him his life. 

He went to the nearest cottage of a vine-dresser, and 
begged for a warm drink. His clothes were damp, and 
he left them in the cottage, and put on the jacket of one 
of the boys. He knew not whether, if he should return to 
Stahleek, he might hope, as his life had been miraculous- 
ly preserved, that the anger of his father would be soften- 
ed ; and then he hoped to obtain the interest of his mother 
and sister for the fair Loreley, and that they might inter- 
cede for her with his father. Again, midst his secret shud- 
dering, the wish awoke in him to fly to the maid of the 
rock, and to live for her alone ; and again fear overcame 
his longings. Thus he spent a part of the morning mus- 
ing upon the shore, till at last he bethought himself it 
would be best to go straight to Stahleek ; otherwise the 
maid might come into danger before he could prevent it. 
He felt more and more anxious, the nearer he approached 
the castle of his father. He mounted the steps in the 
rock, which led a nearer way to a small gate; but, in seiz- 
ing the knocker, he perceived he had lost a little ring 
which he always wore on his left hand; and he thought 
the mermaid might have taken it secretly from his finger, 
to bind him forever to her. 

Night came on. The pfalzgraf, informed of the death 
of his son, sent Ruthard with a troop of soldiers to catch 
Loreley, dead or alive. Ruthard had begged hard to be 
intrusted with this commission. Loreley stood on the 
top of the rock, when the fierce-looking men came down 
the dark flood. She gazed up the river, wondering that 



LORELEY. 123 

Hagbert did not come, and called aloud, as she was wont, 
'' Loreley, Loreley ! " Then Ruthard cried mockingly 
to her, " We brinsf to thee the oreetino-s of your love Haor- 
bert : he sends by us a kiss to his bride, with which he 
weds thee : come down to us to get it, or tell us how to 
come up to thee without flying. O, thou fair and wild 
Loreley, here is new booty for thee. Dost thou not choose 
to catch it as thou hast caught Hagbert? " 

Loreley lifted her snow-white hand : she pointed with 
her finger here and there, and showed them how they 
might climb up the rock; for she thought that they came 
in .peace, and that they surely brought to her Hagbert's 
greetings. Many of them warned the rash Ruthard, but 
he laughed at their fears; and two of his savage menials 
climbed up the rock with him. "Bind her!" called he 
out, when they had gained the rock. "What do you in- 
tend? " exclaimed Loreley. " Thou must die : down with 
thee to the Rhine, thou witch ! " said Ruthard. " Thou 
must die, siren that thou art, who hast killed the beautiful 
Hagbert," 

"Hagbert!" exclaimed Loreley in a melting voice, 
" Come hither, Hagbert, I am no witch. I am Hagbert's 
love ; his true love." " Phantom I " cried Ruthard, " Hag- 
bert lies in the river," " He is at Stahleek," said Loreley, 
wringing her snow-white hands, and embracing Ruthard's 
knee, "O, let me not die! Hagbert, Hagbert, come 
hither!" 

The hearts of all those who had remained below were 
moved by her beauty and her accents, so that one cried 
to the savage knight, " Have patience, Ruthard; I will 
ride to Stahleek, and see whether the mermaid has spoken 
the truth : if the son of the pfalzgraf is at the castle — if 
she has saved his life — she shall be free," But Ruthard 
laughed in mockery, and said, " Will you not also bring a 
priest that he may convert the witch ? Although Hagbert 
were yet living, Loreley must die for having seduced him," 



12:4 LOBELEY. 

But Loreley looked with new courage upon the man as he 
flew away in full speed upon his foaming horse, and said, 
*' Do you wish to throw me into the Rhine ? That I can 
do better myself Here, before your eyes, I will leap into 
it." But Ruthard got her fettered, and a heavy stone was 
brought, whilst the cruel knight shook his glittering sword 
above her swan-white neck. 

A swift boat now came through the waves bearing to 
the edge, of the rock the friendly soldier who had ridden 
to Stahleek. " Loreley," called he up to her, " give back 
the little ring you have taken from the palatine's son, and 
your life shall be saved : — thus the palatine spoke." " I 
have no ring of his," said Loreley, lamenting ; '* he had 
none on his hand to give me. Hagbert, alas! Hagbert, 
why dost thou not come? Drag me to him in chains, 
and he will loose them." 

'* Do you see ? she will not yield up the ring," replied 
Ruthard, spitefully. Then Loreley wept, like the implor- 
ing deer, when the harsh, savage huntsman stands before 
it; and many of those who stood below wept with her, for 
R-uthard had no mercy ; he granted her no respite ; he hung 
t le heavy stone at her neck, and the murderers approach- 
Cv^; but Loreley looked on them, and said, " My love has 
betrayed me : no one shall ever see me more." Once 
more she glanced up the river, and leaned over, as if she 
wished to see castle Stahleek : she then stepped to the 
edge of the rock, and leaped down. 

As if changed into stone, Ruthard and his two blood- 
thirsty companions gazed after her. They could not find 
the way down again; and thus they died a miserable 
death. But Hagbert v/as inconsolable when he heard the 
news of Loreley. 

The following day, a man from Oberwesel brought a net 
of large, fine fish to the castle; and when they were about 
to prepare them in the kitchen, they found under the tongue 
of one of them the ring which the youth had lost, and 



DREAM-CHILDREN. 125 

which, doubtless, had fallen from his finger when the flood 
drew him down. 

Hagbert often rowed up and down the Rhine ; but Lor- 
eley's lovely form, and her fair countenance, he never saw 
again. Yet her voice was often heard : she sang no longer, 
but she answered when called to ; and then it seemed as 
if she wept, and sighed deeply, and would have said, had 
she spoken, " Why do you throw away your words upon 
me, and invite me to play as I formerly did ? It is no 
longer Hagbert's voice. I have lost him, lost." 

When Hagbert called to her, she answered his words 
like an echo ; but he could not bear the sound. Once he 
pressed his sister Wana to his breast, who mournfully 
stood beside him ; threw the ring into the Rhine ; and lis- 
tened through the sound of the oars tovvards the rock ; but 
his sister kept him back, when he longed to fling himself 
down into the wild river. 

From the day on which he threw the rich ring into the 
Rhine, near the rock which still bears the name of the 
Mermaid, Hagbert declined in health, as if something was 
gnawing at his heart ; and like the sound of the bugle- 
horn at the Loreley, his young life died away in the long- 
ings of love. 



DREAM-CHILDREN; A REVERIE. 

Children love to listen to stories about their elders, 
when they were children; to stretch their imagination to 
the conception of a traditionary great-uncle, or grandame, 
whom they never saw. It was in this spirit that my little 
ones crept about me, the other evening, to hear about their 
great-grandmother Field, who lived in a great house in 
11 * 



126 DREAM-CHILDREN. 

Norfolk (a hundred times bigger than that in which they 
and papa lived), which had been the scene — so, at least, 
it was generally believed in that part of the country — of 
the tragic incidents which they had lately become familiar 
with, from the ballad of the Children in the Wood. Cer- 
tain it is, that the whole story of the children and their 
cruel uncle was to be seen fairly carved out in the wood 
upon the chimney-piece of the great hall; the whole story 
down to the robin red-breasts — till a foolish rich person 
pulled it down to set up a marble one of modern inven- 
tion in its stead, with no story upon it. Here Alice put out 
one of her dear mother's looks, too tender to be called 
upbraiding. Then I went on to say, how religious and 
how good their great-grandmother Field was, how beloved 
and respected by every body, though she was not, indeed, 
the mistress of this great house, but had only the charge 
of it (and yet, in some respects, she might be said to be 
the mistress of it too) committed to her by the owner, who 
preferred living in a newer and more fashionable mansion, 
which he had purchased somewhere in the adjoining coun- 
ty; — but still she lived in it, in a manner as if it had been 
her own, and kept up the dignity of the great house, in a 
sort, while she lived, which afterwards came to decay, and 
was nearly pulled down, and all its old ornaments stripped 
and carried away to the owner's other house, where they 
were set up, and looked as awkward as if some one were to 
carry away the old tombs they had seen lately at the 
abbey, and stick them up in Lady C.'s tawdry gilt draw-, 
ing-room. Here John smiled, as much as to say, "That 
would be foolish indeed." And then I told how, when 
she came to die, her funeral was attended by a concourse 
of all the poor, and some of the gentry, too, of the neigh- 
borhood, for many miles round, to show their respect for 
her memory, because she had been such a good and reli- 
gious woman : so good, indeed, that she knew all the Psal- 
ter by heart : ay, and a great part of the Testament be- 



DREAM-CHILDREN. 127 

sides. Here little Alice spread her hands. Then I told 
what a tall, upright, graceful person tlieir great-grand- 
mother Field once was ; and how, in her youth, she was 
esteemed the best dancer — here Alice's little right foot 
played an involuntary movement, till, upon my looking 
grave, it desisted — the best dancer, I was saying, in the 
county, till a cruel disease, called a cancer, came, and 
bowed her down with pain ; but it could never bend her 
good spirits, or make them stoop; but they were still up- 
right, because she was so good and religious. Then I told 
how she was used to sleep by herself in a lone chamber of 
the great lone house ; and how she believed that an appari- 
tion of two infants was to be seen at midnight, gliding up 
and down the great staircase near where she slept ; but she 
said, " those innocents would do her no harm ; " and how 
frightened I used to be, though in those days I had my maid 
to sleep with me, because I was never half so good or reli- 
gious as she — and yet I never saw the infants. Here John 
expanded all his eye-brows, and tried to look courageous. 
Then I told how good she was to all her grandchildren, 
having us to the great house in the holidays, where I, in 
particular, used to spend many hours by myself, in gazing 
upon the old busts of the twelve Caesars, that had been 
emperors of Rome, till the old marble heads would seem 
to live again, or I to be turned into marble with them ; how 
I never could be tired with roaming about that huge man- 
sion, with its vast empty rooms, with their worn-out hang- 
ings, fluttering tapestry, and carved oaken panels, with 
the gilding almost rubbed out ; sometimes in the spacious 
old-fashioned gardens, which I had almost to myself, un- 
less when, now and then, a solitary gardening man would 
cross me ; and how the nectarines and peaches hung upon 
the walls, without my ever offering to pluck them, because 
they were forbidden fruit, unless now and then — and be- 
cause I had more pleasure in strolling about among the 
old melancholy-looking yew-trees, or the firs, and picking 



128 DREAM-CHILDREN. 

up the red berries, and the fir-apples, which were good for 
nothing but to look at — or in lying about upon the fii-esh 
grass, with all the fine garden smells around nie — or bask- 
ing in the orangery, till I could almost fancy myself ripening 
too, along with the oranges and the limes, in that grateful 
warmth — or in watching the dace, that darted to and fro 
in the fish-pond, at the bottom of the garden, with here 
and there a great sulky pike, hanging midway down the 
water in silent state, as if it mocked at their impertinent 
friskings; — I had more pleasure in these busy-idle diver- 
sions than in all the sweet flavors of peaches, nectarines, 
oranges, and such like common baits of children. Here 
John slily deposited back upon the plate a bunch of 
grapes, which, not unobserved by Alice, he had meditated 
dividing with her ; and both seemed willing to relinquish 
them for the present as irrelevant. Then, in somewhat a 
more heightened tone, I told how, though their great- 
grandmother Field loved all her grandchildren, yet, in 
an especial manner, she might be said to love their uncle, 

John L , because he was so handsome and spirited a 

youth, and a king to the rest of us; and, instead of mo- 
ping about in solitary corners, like some of us, he would 
mount the most mettlesome horse he could get, when but 
an imp no bigger than themselves, and make it carry him 
half over the county in a morning, and join the hunters 
when there were any out ; and yet he loved the old great 
house and gardens too, but had too much spirit to be 
always pent up within their boundaries ; — and how their 
uncle grew up to man's estate as brave as he was hand- 
some, to the admiration of every body, but of their great- 
grandmother Field most especially ; and how he used to 
carry me upon his back, when I was a lame-footed boy, — 
for he was a good bit older than I, — many a mile, when I 
could not walk for pain ; and how, in after life, he became 
lame-footed too, and I did not always (I fear) make allow- 
ances enough for him when he was impatient, and in pain, 



DREAM-CHILDREN. I'^O 

nor remember sufficiently how considerate he had been to 
me when I was lame-footed ; and how, when he died, 
though he had not been dead an hour, it seemed as if he 
had died a great while ago (such a distance there is be- 
twixt life and death) ; and how I bore his death, as I 
thought, pretty well at first; but afterwards it haunted and 
haunted me ; and though I did not cry or take it to heart 
as some do, and as I think he would have done if I had 
died, yet I missed him all day long, and I knew not till 
then how much I had loved him. I missed his kindness, 
and I missed his crossness, and wished him to be alive 
again, to be quarrelling with him (for we quarrelled some- 
times), rather than not have him again ; and was as un- 
easy without him, as he, their poor uncle, must have been 
when the doctor took off his limb. Here the children fell 
a-crying, and asked if their little mourning which they 
had on was not for uncle John ; and they looked up, and 
prayed me not to go on about their uncle, but to tell them 
some stories about their pretty dead mother. Then I told 
how, for seven long years, in hope sometimes, sometimes 
in despair, yet persisting ever, I courted the fair Alice 
W — n; and, as much as children could understand, I ex- 
plained to them what coyness, and difficulty, and denial, 
meant in maidens ; when suddenly, turning to Alice, the 
soul of the first Alice looked out at her eyes, with such a 
reality of representment, that I became in doubt which 
of them stood there before me, or whose that bright hair 
was; and while I stood gazing, both the children gradu- 
ally grew fainter to my view, receding, and still receding, 
till nothing at last but two mournful features were seen in 
the uttermost distance, which, without speech, strangely 
impressed upon me the effects of speech : " We are not 
of Alice, nor of thee, nor are we children at all. The 
children of Alice call Bartrum father. We are nothing ; 
less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might 
have been, and must wait upon the tedious shores of 



130 JOHN BROWN. 

Lethe millions of ages, before we have existence and a 
name." And immediately awaking, I found myself quiet- 
ly seated in my bachelor arm-chair, where I had fallen 
asleep, with the faithful Bridget unchanged by my side. 

Charles Lamb. 



JOHN BROWN. 



John Brown, the Ayr, or, as he was more commonly 
designated by the neighbors, the religious carrier, had 
been absent, during the month of January, 1685, from his 
home, in the neighborhood of Muirkirk, for several days. 
The weather, in the meantime, had become extremely 
stormy, and a very considerable fall of snow had taken 
place. His only daughter, a girl of about eleven years of 
age, had frequently, during the afternoon of Saturday, 
looked out from the cottage door into the drift, in order to 
report to her mother, who was occupied with the nursing 
of an infant brother, the anxious occurrences of the even- 
ing. '' Help," too, the domestic cur, had not remained 
an uninterested spectator of the general anxiety, but, by 
several fruitless and silent excursions into the night, had 
given indisputable testimony that the object of his search 
had not yet neared the solitary shieling. It was a long 
and a wild road, lying over an almost trackless muir, along 
which John Brown had to come ; and the cart-track, 
which, even in better weather, and with the advantage of 
more day-light, might easily be mistaken, had, undoubted- 
ly, ere this, become invisible. Besides, John had long 
been a marked bird, having rendered himself obnoxious to 
the ''powers that were" by his adherence to the Sanquhar 
declaration; his attending field-preachings, or, as they 
were termed, " conventicles;" his harboring of persecuted 



JOHN BROWN. 131 

ministers; and, above all, by a moral, a sober, and a pro- 
verbially devout and religious conduct. In an age when 
immorality was held to be synonymous with loyalty, and 
irreligion with non-resistance and passive obedience, it 
was exceedingly dangerous to wear such a character; 
and, accordingly, there had not been \vanting information 
to the prejudice of this quiet and godly man. Clavers, 
who, ever since the affair of Drumclog, had discovered 
more of the merciless and revengeful despot than of the 
veteran or hero, had marked his name, according to re- 
port, in his black list ; and when once Clavers had taken 
his resolution and his measures, the Lord have mercy upon 
those against Vvhom these were pointed. He seldom hesi- 
tated in carrying his plans into effect, although his path 
lay over the trampled and lacerated feelings of humanity. 
Omens, too, of an unfriendly and evil-boding import, 
had not been a-wanting in the cottage of John Brown to 
increase the alarm. The cat had mewed suspiciously, had 
appeared restless, and had continued to glare, in hideous 
indication, from beneath the kitchen bed. The death- 
watch, which had not been noticed since the decease of 
the gudeman's mother, was again, in the breathless pause 
of listening suspense, heard to click distinctly ; and the 
cock, instead of crowing, as on ordinary occasions, imme- 
diately before day-dawn, had originated a sudden and an 
alarming flap of his wings, succeeded by a fearful scream, 
long before the usual bed-time. It was a gloomy crisis ; 
and, after a considerable time spent in dark and despair- 
ing reflection, the evening lamp was at last trimmed, and 
the peat-fire repaired into something approaching to a 
cheerful flame. But all would not do; for, whilst the soul 
within is disquieted and in suspense, all external means 
and appliances are inadequate to procure comfort, or im- 
part even an air of cheerfulness. At last, " Help " sud- 
denly lifted his head from the hearth, shook his ears, 
sprung to his feet, and, with something betwixt a growl 



132 JOHN BROWN. 

and a bark, rushed towards the door, at which the '' yird 
drift" was now entering copiously. It was, however, a false 
alarm. The cow had moved beyond the "hallan,"*or 
the mice had come into sudden contact, and squeaked 
behind the rafters. John, too, it was reasoned betwixt 
mother and daughter, was always so regular and point- 
ed in his arrivals, and this being Saturday night, it was 
not a little or an insignificant obstruction which could 
have prevented him from being home, in due time, 
at least, for family worship. His cart, in fact, had 
usually been pitched up, with the trams supported 
against the peat-stack, by two o'clock of the afternoon ; 
and the evening of his arrival from his weekly excursion 
to Ayr, was always an occasion of affectionate intercourse 
and more than ordinary interest. Whilst his disconsolate 
wife, therefore, turned her eyes towards her husband's 
chair, and to the family Bible, which lay in a " bole " t 
within reach of his hand, and, at the same time, listened 
to the howling and intermitting gusts of the storm, she 
could not avoid — it was not in nature that she should — 
contrasting her present with her former situation ; thus im- 
p.arting even to objects of the most kindly and comforting 
association all the livid and darkening hues of her dis- 
consolate mind. But there is a depth and a reach in true 
and genuine piety which the plummet of sorrow may 
never measure. True religion sinks into the heart as the 
refreshing dew does into the chinks and the crevices of the 
dry and parched soil; and the very fissures of aiBiction, 
the cleavings of the soul, present a more ready and invi- 
ting, as well as efficient access to the softening influence 
of piety. 

This poor woman began gradually to think less of dan- 
ger, and more of God ; to consider, as a set-off against all 



* A partition in a cottage. 

t A locker in the wall of a cottage, for books, &c. 



JOHN BROWN. 133 

her fruitless uneasiness, the vigilance and benevolence of 
that powerful Being, to whom, and to whose will, the ele- 
ments, in all their combinations and relations, are sub- 
servient; and, having quieted her younger child in the 
cradle, and intimated her intention by a signal to her 
daughter, she proceeded to take down the family Bible, 
and to read out, in a soft and subdued, but most devout 
and impressive voice, the following lines : — 

'• I waited for the Lord my God, 
And patiently did bear : 
At length to me he did incline, 
My voice and cry to hear." 

These two solitary worshippers of Him whose eyes are 
on the just, and whose ear is open to their cry, had pro- 
ceeded to the beginning of the fourth verse of this psalm, 
and were actually employed in singing, with an increased 
and increasing degree of fervor and devotion, the follow- 
ing trustful and consolatory expressions — 

" Oh, blessed is the man vs^hose trust 
Upon the Lord reUcs," — 

when the symphony of another and a well-known voice 
was felt to be present; and they became at once assured 
that the beloved object of their solicitude had joined them, 
unseen and unperceived, in the worship. This was felt 
by all to be as it ought to have been ; nor did the natural 
and instinctive desire to accommodate the weary and 
snow-covered traveller with such conveniences and appli- 
ances as his present condition manifestly demanded, pre- 
vent the psalm-singing from going on, and the service from 
being finished with all suitable decency. Having thus, 
in the first instance, rendered thanks unto God, and bless- 
ed and magnified that mercy which pervades, and directs, 
and overrules, every agent in nature, no time was lost in 
12 



134 JOHN BROWN. 

attending to the secondary objects of inquiry and mani- 
festation ; and the kind heart overflowed, whilst the tongue 
and the hand were busied in "answer meet," and "in ac- 
commodation suitable." 

In all the wide range of Scotland's muirs * and moun- 
tains, straths f and glens, | there was not to be found, this 
evening, a happier family than that over which John 
Brown, the religious carrier, now presided. The affec- 
tionate inquiries and solicitous attentions of his wife, of 
his partner trusty and tried, not only under the cares and 
duties of life, but in the faith, in the bonds of the Cove- 
nant, and in all that similarity of sentiment and appre- 
hension upon religious subjects, without which no matri- 
monial union can possibly ensure happiness, — were deeply 
felt and fully appreciated. They two had sat together in 
the " Torwood," listening to the free and fearless accents 
of excommunication, as they rolled in dire and in blasting 
destiny from the half-inspired lips of the learned and in- 
trepid Mr. Donald Cargil. They had, at the risk of their 
lives, harbored for a season, and enjoyed the comfortable 
communion and fellowship of, Mr. Richard Cameron, im- 
mediately previous to his death in the unfortunate ren- 
counter at " Airsmoss." They had followed into and out, 
through the shire of Ayr, the zealous and eloquent Mr. 
John King, and that even in spite of the interdict of coun- 
cil, and after that a price had been set upon the preacher's 
head. Their oldest child had been baptized by a Pres- 
byterian and ejected minister under night, and in the 
midst of a wreath § of snow ; and the youngest was still 
awaiting the arrival of an approven servant of God, to re- 
ceive the same sanctified ordinance. And if, at times, a 
darker thought passed suddenly across the disk of their 

* Moors, land overgrown with heath. 
t Valleys through which a river runs. 
t Glen, a deep valley. 
6 Wreath, a drift. 



JOHN BROWN. 135 

sunny hearts, and if the cause of a poor, persecuted 
remnant, the interests of a reformed, and suffering, and 
bleeding church, supervened in cloud upon the general 
quietude and acquiescence of their souls, this was in- 
stantly relieved and dispersed by a deeper, and more 
sanctified, and more trustful tone of feeling; whilst amidst 
the twilight beams of prophecy, and the invigorating 
exercise of faith, the heart was disciplined to hope, and 
reliance, and assurance. And if at times the halloo, and 
the yells, and the clatter of persecution, were heard upon 
the hill-side, or up the glen, where the Covenanters' cave 
was discovered, and five honest men were butchered under 
a sunny morning, and in cold blood ; and if the voice of 
Clavers, or of his immediate deputy in the work of bloody 
oppression, " Red Rob," came occasionally, in the accents 
of vindictive exclamation, upon the breeze of evening ; 
yet hitherto the humble "Cottage in the Muir" had 

escaped notice, and the tread and tramp of man and horse 
had passed mercifully, and almost miraculously by. The 
general current of events closed in upon such occasional 
sources of agitation and alarm, leaving the house in the 
muir in possession of all that domestic happiness, and 
even quietude, which its retirement and its inmates were 
calculated to ensure and to participate. 

Early next morning, the cottage of John Brown was 
surrounded by a troop of dragoons, with Clavers at their 
head. John, who had probably a presentiment of what 
might happen, urged his wife and daughter to remain 
within doors, insisting that, as the soldiers were, in all 
likelihood, in search of some other individual, he should 
soon be able to dismiss them. By this time, the noise oc- 
casioned by the trampling and neighing of horses, com- 
mingled with the hoarse and husky laugh and vocifera- 
tions of the dragoons, had brought John, half-dressed and 
in his night-cap, to the door. Clavers immediately ac- 
costed him by name; and, in a manner peculiar to himself, 



136 JOHN BROWN. 

intended for something betwixt the expression of fun and 
irony, he proceeded to make inquiries respecting one 
" Samuel Aitkin, a godly man, and a minister of the 
word, one outrageously addicted to prayer, and occasion- 
ally found with the sword of the flesh in one hand, and 
that of the Spirit in the other, disseminating sedition, and 
propagating disloyalty amongst his majesty's lieges." John 
admitted, at once, that the worthy person referred to was 
not unknown to him, asserting, however, at the same time, 
that of his present residence, or place of hiding, he was not 
free to speak. "No doubt, no doubt," rejoined the ques- 
tioner; " you, to be sure, know nothing 1 How should you, 
all innocence and ignorance as you are 1 But here is a little 
chip of the old block, which may probably recollect bet- 
ter, and save us the trouble of blowing out her father's 
brains, just by way of making him remember a little 
more accurately." " You, my little farthing rush-light," 
said "Red Rob,"* alighting from his horse, and seizing 
the girl rudely, and with prodigious force, by the wrists, 
"you remember an old man, with a long beard, and a bald 
head, who was here a few days ago, baptizing your sister, 
and giving many good advices to father and mother, and 
who is now within a few miles of this house, just up in a 
nice snug cave in the glen there, to which you can readi- 
ly and instantly conduct us, you know ? " The girl look- 
ed first at her mother, who had now advanced into the 
door-\vay, then at her father, and at last drooped her head, 
and continued to preserve a complete silence. "And so," 
continued the questioner, " you are dumb ; you cannot 
speak ; your tongue is a little obstinate or so ; and you must 

*"Red Rob," the " Both well," probably, of <' Old Mortality," 
was, in fact, the right-hand man of Clavers on all occasions, and 
has caused himself long to be remembered amidst the peasantry of 
the west of Scotland, not only by the dragoon's red cloak which 
he wore, but still more by his hands, crimsoned in the blood of his 
countrymen. 



JOHN BROWN. 137 

not tell family secrets. But what think you, my little chick, 
of speaking with your fingers, of having a pat, and a proper, 
and a pertinent answer just ready, my love, at your finger 
ends, as one may say. As the Lord lives, and as my soul lives, 
but this will make a dainty nosegay" (displaying a thumbi- 
kin or finger-screw) "for my sweet little Covenanter; and 
then " (applying the instrument of torture, meanwhile, and 
adjusting it to the thumb) "you will have no manner of 
trouble whatever in recollecting yourself: it will just come 
to you like the lug of a stoup : * and — don't knit your brows 
so" (for the pain had become insufferable) — " then we shall 
have you quite chatty and amusing, I warrant." The 
mother, who could stand this no longer, rushed upon 
the brutal executioner, and, with expostulations, threats, 
and the most impassioned entreaties, endeavored to relax 
the questioner's twist. " Can you, mistress, recollect any 
thing of this man we are in quest of ? " resumed CI avers, 
haughtily. " It may save us both some trouble, and your 
daughter a continuance and increase of her present suffer- 
ing, if you will just have the politeness to make us ac- 
quainted with what you happen to know upon the subject." 
The poor woman seemed for an instant to hesitate ; and 
her daughter looked most piteously and distractedly into 
her countenance, as if expectant and desirous of respite 
through her mother's compliance. " Woman ! " exclaimed 
the husband, in a tone of indignant surprise, " hast thou 
so soon forgot thy God ? and shall the fear of any thing 
'which man can do induce thee to betray innocent blood?" 
He said no more ; but he had said enough ; for from that 
instant the whole tone of his wife's feelings was changed, 
and her soul was wound up, as if by the hand of Omnipo- 
tence, into resolution and daring. " Bravo! " exclaimed 
the arch-persecutor, "bravo! old Canticles; thou word'stit 
well ; and so you three pretty innocents have laid your 



* Handle of a jug. 
12* 



138 JOHN BROWN. 

holy heads together ; and you have resolved to die, should 
it so please God and us, with a secret in your breast, and 
a lie in your mouth, like the rest of your psalm-singing, 
hypocritical, canting sect, rather than discover guid Mr. 
Aitkin ! — pious Mr. Aitkin ! — worthy Mr. Aitkin ! But 
we shall try what light this little telescope of mine will af- 
ford upon the subject," pointing at the same time to a 
carabine or holster pistol, which hung suspended from the 
saddle of his horse. " This cold, frosty morning requires 
that one, ".continued Clavers, " should be employed, were 
it for no other purpose than just to gain heat by the exer- 
cise. And so, old Pragmatical, in order that you may not 
catch cold by so early an exposure to the keen air, we will 
take the liberty " (hereupon the whole troop gathered round, 
and presented muskets), " for the benefit of society, and for 
the honor and safety of the king, — never to speak of the 
glory of God and the good of souls, — simply and uncere- 
moniously, and in the neatest and most expeditious man- 
ner imaginable, to hlow out your brains." John Brown 
dropped down instantly, and as it were instinctively, upon 
his knees, whilst his wife stood by in seeming composure ; 
and his daughter hud happily become insensible to all ex- 
ternal objects and transactions whatever. "What!" ex- 
claimed Clavers; "and so you must pray too, to be sure; 
and we shall have a last speech and a dying testimony 
lifted up in the presence of peat stacks, and clay walls, 
and snow wreaths; but as these are pretty stanch and 
confirmed loyalists, I do not care though we intrust you 
with five minutes of devotional exercise, provided you steer 
clear of king, council, and Richard Cameron. So pro- 
ceed, good John, but be short and pithy. My lambs are 
not accustomed to long prayers, nor will they readily soften 
under the pathetic whining of your devotions." But in 
this last surmise Clavers was for once mistaken ; for the 
prayer of this poor and uneducated man ascended, that 
morning, in expressions at once so earnest, so devout, and 



JOHN BROWN. 139 

SO overpoweringly pathetic, that deep silence succeeded at 
last to oaths and ribaldry ; and as the following conclud- 
ing sentences were pronounced, there were evident marks 
of better and relenting feelings. " And now, guid Lord," 
continued this death-doomed and truly Christian sufferer, 
" since thou hast nae mair use for thy servant in this world, 
and since it is thy good and rightful pleasure that I should 
serve thee better and love thee more elsewhere, I leave 
this puir widow woman, with the helpless and fatherless 
children, upon thy hands. We have been happy in each 
other here; and now that we are to part for a while, we 
maun* e'en look forward to a more perfect and enduring 
happiness hereafter. And as for the puir blindfolded and 
infatuated creatures, the present ministers of thy will. 
Lord, reclaim them from the error and the evil of their 
courses ere it be too late ; and may they who have sat in 
judgment and in oppression in this lonely place, and on 
this blessed morning, and upon a puir, weak, defenceless 
fellow-creature, find that mercy at last from thee which 
they have this day refused to thy unworthy but faithful 
servant. — Now, Isbel," continued this defenceless and 
amiable martyr, " the time is come at last, of which, you 
know, I told you on that day, when first I proposed to 
unite hand and heart with yours; and are you willing, for 
the love of God and his rightful authority, to part with me 
thus?" To which the poor woman replied, with perfect 
composure, " The Lord gave, and he taketh away. I 
have had a sweet loan of you, my dear John; and I can 
part with you for his sake, as freely as ever I parted with 
a mouthful of meat to the hungry, or a night's lodging to 
the weary and benighted traveller." So saying, she ap- 
proached her still kneeling and blindfolded husband, 
clasped him round the neck, kissed and embraced him 
closely, and then, lifting up her person into an attitude of 



Must. 



140 JOHN BROWN. 

determined endurance, and eyeing from head to foot every 
soldier who stood with his carabine levelled, she retired 
slowly and firmly to the spot which she had formerly occu- 
pied. " Come, come ; let's have no more of this whining 
work," interrupted Clavers, suddenly. '' Soldiers, do your 
duty." But the words fell upon a circle of statues ; and, 
though they all stood with their muskets presented, there 
was not a finger which had power to draw the fatal trigger. 
There ensued an awful pause, through which a " God Al- 
mighty bless your tender hearts ! " was heard coming from 
the lips of the noiu agitated and almost distracted wife. 
But Clavers was not in the habit of giving his orders 
twice, or of expostulating with disobedience. So, extract- 
ing a pistol from the holster of his saddle, he primed and 
cocked it, and then, walking firmly and slowly up through 
the circle close to the ear of his victim, * * * 

** # * * * #**# 

There was a momentary murmur of discontent and of dis- 
approbation amongst the men, as they looked upon the 
change which a single awful instant had effected ; and 
even " Red Rob," though a Covenanting slug still stuck 
smartingly in his shoulder, had the hardihood to mut- 
ter, loud enough to be heard, " This is too bad!" The 
widow of John Brown gave one, and but one, shriek of 
horror as the fatal engine exploded ; and then, address- 
ing herself leisurely, as if to the discharge of some ordi- 
nary domestic duty, she began to unfold a napkin from 
her neck. " What think ye, good woman, of your bonny 
man now ? " vociferated Clavers, returning, at the same 
time, the pistol, with a plunge, into the holster from which 
it had been extracted. " I had always good reason," re- 
plied the woman, firmly and deliberately, " to think weel 
of him ; and I think mair o' him now than ever. But how 
will Graham of Claverhouse account to God and man for 
this morning's work ? " continued the respondent, firmly. 
"To man," answered the ruffian, ''I can be answerable; 



LITTLE RACHEL. 141 

and as to God, I will take him in my own hands." He 
then marched off, and left her with the corpse. She 
spread the napkin leisurely upon the snow, gathered up 
the scattered fragments of her husband's head, covered 
his body with a plaid, and, sitting down with her youngest 
and yet unbaptized infant, wept bitterly. 

The cottage, and the kail-yard, and the peat-stack, and 
the whole little establishment of John Brown, the religious 
carrier, have long disappeared from the heath and the 
muir; but the little spot, within one of the windings of 
the burn, where the " House in the Muir" stood, is still 
green, amidst surrounding heath; and in the very centre 
of that spot, there lies a slab, or flat stone, now almost 
covered over with grass, upon which, with a little clearing 
away of the moss from the faded characters, the following 
rude, but expressive lines may still be read : — 

'' Clavers might murder godlv Brown. 
But could not rob him of his crown ; 
Here in this place from earth he took departure ; 
Now he has got the garland of the martyr." 

Blackwood's Magazine. 



LITTLE RACHEL. 



In one of the wild nooks of heath land, which are set 
so prettily amidst our richly-timbered valleys, stands the 
cottage of Robert Ford, an industrious and substantial 
blacksmith. There is a striking appearance of dingy 
comfort about the whole demesne, forming, as it does, a 
sort of detached and isolated territory in the midst of the 
unenclosed common by which it is surrounded. The am- 
ple garden, whose thick, dusty, quickset hedge runs along 
the high road; the snug cottage, whose gable end abuts on 



142 LITTLE RACHEL. 

the causeway ; the neat court, which parts the house from 
the long, low-browed shop and forge ; and the stable, cart- 
shed, and piggeries, behind, — have all an air of rustic opu- 
lence: even the clear, irregular pond, that adjoins, half- 
covered with ducks and geese, and the old pollard oak, 
with a milestone leaning against it, that overhangs the 
dwelling, seem in accordance with its consequence and 
character, and give finish and harmony to the picture. 

The inhabitants Avere, also, in excellent keeping. Robert 
Ford, a stout, hearty, middle-aged man, sooty and grim as 
a collier, paced backward and forward between the house 
and the forge with the step of a man of substance — his 
very leather apron had an air of importance : his wife, 
Dinah, a merry, comely woman, sat at the open door, in 
an amplitude of cap, and gown, and handkerchief, darn- 
ing an eternal worsted stocking, and hailed the passers-by 
with the cheerful ffeedom of one well to do in the world ; 
and their three sons, well-grown lads, from sixteen to 
twenty, were the pride of the village for industry and good 
humor — to say nothing of their hereditary love of cricket. 
On a Sunday, when they had on their best clothes, and 
cleanest faces, they were the handsomest youths in the 
parish. Robert Ford was proud of his boys, as well he 
might be, and Dinah was still prouder. 

Altogether, it was a happy family, and a pretty scene ; 
especially of an evening, when the forge was at work, and 
when the bright firelight shone through the large, unglazed 
window, illumining, with its strange, red, unearthly light, 
the group that stood round the anvil ; showers of sparks 
flying from the heated iron, and the loud strokes of the 
sledge-hammer resounding over all the talking and laugh- 
ing of the workmen, reinforced by three or four idlers, who 
were lounging about the shop. It formed a picture, which, 
in a summer evening, we could seldom pass without stop- 
ping to contemplate : beside, I had a roadside acquaint- 
ance with Mrs. Ford, had taken shelter in her cottage 



LITTLE RA.CHEL. 143 

from thunder-storms and snow-storms, and, even by day- 
light, could not walk by without a friendly " How d'ye do?" 
Late in last autumn, we observed an addition to the 
family, in the person of a pretty, little, shy lass, of some 
eight years old, a fair, slim, small-boned child, with deli- 
cate features, large blue eyes, a soft color, light, shining 
hair, and a remarkable neatness in her whole appearance. 
She seemed constantly busy, either sitting on a low stool 
by Dinah's side, at needle-work, or gliding about the 
kitchen, engaged in some household employment ; for the 
wide-open door generally favored the passengers with a 
full view of the interior, from the fully-stored bacon-rack 
to the nicely-swept hearth; and the little girl, if she per- 
ceived herself to be looked at, would slip behind the clock- 
case, or creep under the dresser, to avoid notice. Mrs. 
Ford, when questioned as to her new inmate, said that 
she was her husband's niece, the daughter of a younger 
brother, who had worked somewhere London-way, and 
had died lately, leaving a widow, with eleven children, in 
distressed circumstances. She added, that, having no girl 
of their own, they had taken little Rachel for good and all, 
and vaunted much of her handiness, her sempstressship, 
and her scholarship; how she could read a chapter with 
the parish clerk, or make a shirt with the schoolmistress. 
Hereupon she called her to display her work, — which was 
indeed extraordinary for so young a needle-woman, — and 
would fain have had her exhibit her other accomplish- 
ment of reading ; but the poor little maid hung down her 
head, and blushed up to her white temples, and almost 
cried, and, though too frightened to run away, shrank 
back, till she was fairly hidden behind her portly aunt ; 
so that that performance was perforce pretermitted. Mrs. 
Ford was rather scandalized at this shyness, and expos- 
tulated, coaxed, and scolded, after the customary fashion 
on such occasions. " Shame-facedness was," she said, 
*' Rachel's only fault; and she believed the child could not 



144 LITTLE RACHEL. 

help it. Her uncle and cousins were as fond of her as 
fond could be: but she was afraid of them all, and had 
never entered the shop since there she had been. 
Rachel/' she added, " was singular in all her ways, and 
never spent a farthing on apples or gingerbread, though 
she had a bran new sixpence, which her uncle had given 
her for hemming his cravats : she believed that she was 
saving it to send home." 

A month passed away, during which time, from the 
mere habit of seeing us frequently, Rachel became so far 
tamed as to behold me and my usual walking companion 
without much dismay ; would drop her little courtesy with- 
out coloring so very deeply, and was even won to accept 
a bunn from that dear companion's pocket, and to answer 
yes or no to his questions. 

At the end of that period, as we were returning home, in 
the twilight, from a round of morning visits, we perceived 
a sort of confusion in the forge, and heard loud sounds of 
scolding from within the shop, mixed with bitter lamenta- 
tions from without. On a nearer approach, we discovered 
that the object in distress was an old acquaintance, a 
young Italian boy, such a wanderer from the Lake of 
Como as he whom Wordsworth has addressed so beau- 
tifully :- - 

" Or on thy head to poise a show 

Of plaster craft in seemly row ; 
The graceful form of milk-white steed, 
Or bird that soared with Ganymede ; 
Or through our hamlets thou wilt bear 
The sightless Milton, with his hair 

Around his placid temples curled ; 

And Shakspeare at his side a freight, 

If clay could think, and mind were weight, 

For him who bore the world ! " 

He passed us almost every day, carrying his tray full 
of images into every quarter of the village. We had often 



^-^ ,r\ 



V.jf^^;^?'m^^lH ^ 111 






Ci^_-^^ ' 




The cause ol' liis grief was visible."— Paije 145. 



LITTLE RACHEL. l45 

wondered how he could find vent for his commodities; but 
our farmers' wives patronize that branch of art; and Stefa- 
no, with his light, firm step, his upright carriage, his danc- 
ing eyes, and his broken English, was a universal favorite. 

At present, the poor boy's keen Italian features, and 
bright, dark eyes, were disfigured by crying; and his loud 
wailings, and southern gesticulations, bore witness to the 
extremity of his distress. The cause of his grief was visi- 
ble in the half-empty tray that rested on the window of 
the forge, and the green parrot which lay in fragments on 
the footpath. The wrath of Robert Ford required some 
further explanation, which the presence of his worship 
instantly brought forth, although the enraged blacksmith 
was almost too angry to speak intelligibly. 

It appeared that his youngest, and favorite son, Wil- 
liam, had been chaifering with Stefano for this identical 
green parrot, to present to Rachel, when a mischievous 
lad, running along the road, had knocked it from the win 
dow-sill, and reduced it to the state which we saw. So far 
was mere misfortune; and, undoubtedly, if left to himself, 
our good neighbor would have indemnified the little mer- 
chant; but poor Stefano, startled at the suddenness of the 
accident, trembling at the anger of the severe master on 
whose account he travelled the country, and probably, in 
the darkness, really mistaking the offender, unluckily ac- 
cused William Ford of the overthrow; which accusation, 
although the assertion was instantly and humbly retracted 
on William's denial, so aroused the English blood of the 
father, a complete John Bull, that he was raving, till black 
in the face, against cheats and foreigners, and threatening 
the young Italian with whipping, and the treadmill, and 
justices, and stocks, when we made our appearance ; and 
the storm, having nearly exhausted its fury, gradually 
abated. 

By this time, however, the clamor had attracted a little 
crowd of lookers-on from the house and the road — amongst 
13 



146 EBONY AND TOPAZ. 

the rest, Mrs Ford, and, peeping behind ner aunt, little 
Rachel. Stefano continued to exclaim, in his imperfect 
accent, " He will beat me ! " and to sob, and crouch, and 
shiver, as if actually suffering under the impending chas- 
tisement. It was impossible not to sympathize with such 
a reality of distress, although we felt that an English boy, 
similarly situated, would have been too stout-hearted not 
to restrain its expression. " Sixpence !" and "My master 
will beat me ! " intermixed with fresh bursts of crying, 
were all his answers to the various inquiries as to the 
amount o-f his loss, with which he was assailed ; and 
young William Ford, " a lad of grace," was approaching 
his hand to his pocket, and my dear companion had just 
drawn forth his purse, when the good intentions of the one 
were arrested by the stern commands of his father, and 
the other was stopped by the reappearance of Rachel, who 
had run back to the house, and now darted through the 
group, holding out her own new sixpence, her hoarded 
sixpence, and put it into Stefano's hand ! 

It may be imagined that the dear child was no loser by 
her generosity : she was loaded with caresses by every 
one, which, too much excited to feel her bashfulness, she 
not only endured, but returned. Her uncle, thus rebuked 
by an infant, was touched almost to tears. He folded her 
in his arms, kissed her and blessed her; gave Stefano half 
a crown for the precious sixpence, and swore to keep it as 
a relic and a lesson as long as he lived. 

Miss Mitford. 



EBONY AND TOPAZ ;— A TALE BY VOLTAIRE. 

Every body who lives in the province of Candahar 
knows the story of young Rustan. He was the only son 
of a mirzah of that country. Mirzali means the same 



EBONY AND TOPAZ. 147 

thing as marquis among the French, or baron among the 
Germans. Rustan's father, the mirzah in question, was 
pretty well off in the world. It was contemplated to mar- 
ry young Rustan to a young lady, a mirzahess, of the 
same rank. Both the families wanted to bring about the 
match bitterly. He was to become the comfort of his 
relations, to make his dear wife happy, and to be happy 
along with her. 

But, as ill luck would have it, he had seen the Princess 
of Cachemire at the fair of Cabul, which is the largest 
fair in the world, and more crowded, by all odds, than 
either that of Bassora or of Astracan ; and this was the 
reason why the old Prince of Cachemire came to this fair 
with his daughter. 

Now, he had lost the two most precious things in his 
treasury. The one was a diamond, as big as your thumb, 
on which his daughter's likeness was engraved, by an art 
which those Indians had in those days, and which has 
been lost since. The other was a dart, which went, of its 
own accord, wherever you wanted it to go — a thing no 
ways strange among us, though it was thought to be queer 
among the people at Cachemire. 

One of his highness's faquirs stole these two jewels, 
and carried them to the princess. " Keep," said he, 
" these two articles very carefully. Your fate depends on 
them." Then he went his ways, and was never seen any 
more. The Duke of Cachemire, in despair, determined 
to go to the fair of Cabul, and to see whether, among all 
the merchants who came there from the four corners of 
the world, he could not find some one who had his trinket 
and his weapon. He carried his daughter with him in all 
his travels. She kept her diamond snugly shut up in her 
corsage. As for the dart, which she could not so well 
hide, she had carefully locked it up at Cachemire, in a 
big Chinese box. 

It was, then, at Cabul, that she and Rustan met, and 



148 EBONY AND TOPAZ. 

fell to loving one another, with all the simplicity natural 
to their time of life, and all the tenderness natural to the 
climate of their birth. As a pledge of her regard, the 
princess gave him her diamond ; and Rustan promised to 
come and see her, privately, at Cachemire. 

The young mirzah had two favorite servants, who acted 
as his secretaries, squires, major-domos, and valet de 
chambres. One was named Topaz. He was a good- 
looking, well-made fellow, white as a Circassian, ami- 
able and supple as an Armenian, and, withal, as wise 
as a Guebre.* The other's name was Ebony. He was 
a negro ; handsome enough, too, and more active and 
busy than Topaz ; and nothing troubled his conscience. 
To these gentlemen Rustan communicated his plan of 
travelling to Cachemire after the princess. Topaz tried 
to divert him from his purpose, with the discreet zeal of a 
servant who does not want to offend his master. He told 
him all the risks he would have to encounter. He would 
leave, alas ! two interesting families in despair. He would 
plunge a dagger into the hearts of his parents. He 
staggered Rustan ; but Ebony reassured him, and re- 
moved all his scruples. 

The young gentleman wanted cash for such a long jour- 
pey. The wise Topaz would not have found any to lend 
him. Ebony made the arrangements. He dexterously 
abstracted his master's diamond, had another made that 
looked just like it, which he put in its place, and pawned 
the true one to an Armenian for some thousands of 
roupees. 

So soon as the marquis got his roupees, all was ready 
for starting. They clapped his baggage on an elephant, 
and himself they mounted on a horse. Topaz then said 
to his master, "I have taken the liberty of remonstrating 
with you on your undertaking ; but, having entered my 

* The Guebres are a sect of Persians who Avorship fire. 



EBONY AND TOPAZ. 149 

protect, I shall do my duty. I am yours to command. I 
love you truly, and I will follow you to the world's end. 
But, as we go along on the road, let us consult the oracle, 
which is only two parasangs off." * Rustan consented. 
The oracle answered, '^If you go to the cast, you will 
he towards the west."" Rustan did not know what to make 
out of this answer. Topaz maintained that it boded no 
good. The eternally complaisant Ebony persuaded his 
master that it was very favorable indeed. 

There happened to be another oracle at Cabul ; so 
they went there also. The oracle of Cabul replied, ^^ If 
thou dost possess, thou shalt not possess ; if thou art con- 
queror, thou shalt not conquer ; if thou art Rusta7i, thou 
shalt not he such." This oracle seemed more unintelligi- 
ble than the other. " Take care of yourself," cried To- 
paz. " Don't be alarmed," said Ebony. And this last 
officer, as you may suppose, always had his master's ear, 
as long as he encouraged his passion and flattered his 
hopes. 

When they left Cabul, they travelled through a great 
forest. Here they sat down on the grass to eat, and let 
their cattle feed. They were about unloading the ele- 
phant, who carried their victuals and dining equipage, 
when it was observed that Messrs. Topaz and Ebony had 
disappeared from the little caravan. The servants looked 
after them in every direction, and filled the woods with 
their halloos, but came back without seeing any thing of 
them, or getting an answer. " We have only met," said 
they to Rustan, *' with an eagle fighting with a vulture, 
and pulling out all his feathers." The mention of this 
duel excited Rustan's curiosity. He went on foot to the 
spot. He saw no vulture, and no eagle ; but he saw his 
own elephant, all loaded with his own baggage, getting 
attacked by a great big rhinoceros. One beast butted 

* Parasang, a Persian measure, equal to four or five English miles. 
13* 



150 EBONY AND TOPAZ. 

with his horns, the other thwacked with his proboscis. 
The rhinoceros cleared out when he saw Rustan. His 
elephant was brought to him ; but they saw no more of 
the horses. *' Strange things happen in forests when one 
is travelling," observed Rustan. The servants were 
thrown into consternation ; and their master was dread- 
fully sorry to lose, at once, his horses, his dear negro, and 
his wise Topaz, for whom he always had a sneaking re- 
gard, though he never followed his advice. 

Meanwhile, he was consoled by the thought, that he 
should soon be at the feet of the beautiful Princess of 
Cachemire ; whereupon he met a great streaked ass, 
which a terrible strong peasant was belaboring, with most 
unmerciful bangs, with a club. There are no animals 
more beautiful, rare, and gracefully swift, than that kind 
of asses. This one responded to the shower of licks be- 
stowed on him by the scoundrel peasant, with such kicks 
as would have upset an oak with its roots. The young 
mirzah, as was correct, took the ass's part ; and a charm- 
ing creature it was. The rustic, thereupon, took to his 
legs, saying to the ass, "111 fix you one of these days." 
The ass thanked his deliverer, after his fashion, drew 
nigh him, suffered himself to be caressed, and caressed 
Rustan in return. After he had had his dinner, Rustan 
mounted on this ass, and set forth for Cachemire with his 
suite, some of whom followed afoot, and others on the 
elephant. 

But he had scarcely got astride on the ass, when the 
beautiful animal turned towards Cabul, instead of taking 
the road to Cachemire. The rider sawed, and jerked, 
and squeezed with his knees, and pricked with his spurs, 
gave his charger the reins, and then pulled him in, and 
flogged him on both sides ; but it was of no use : the ob- 
stinate beast would go to Cabul. 

Rustan got into a sweat, and worry, and a passion, 
when a camel merchant met him, and said, " Mister, 



EBONY AND TOPAZ. 151 

that^s an ugly ass of yours, that will carry you where you 
don't want to go. If you'll give him to me, you may 
pick out four of my camels." Rustan thanked Provi- 
dence for such a good bargain. " Topaz was very wrong," 
said he, *' to be telling me that my journey would prove 
unfortunate." He got on the prettiest camel, the other 
three following, rejoined his caravan, and found himself 
on the high road to his happiness. 

He had advanced scarcely four parasangs, when he was 
stopped by a deep, full, impetuous torrent, rolling over 
rocks whitened by its foam. Two frightful precipices 
rose on either side, confounding his vision, and freezing 
his courage. There was no way of getting over, nor of 
turning to the right or left. " I begin to fear," said Rus- 
tan, *' that Topaz was right in dissuading me from my 
journey, and that I was a great fool for undertaking it. 
If /?e was here now, he might give me some good advice. 
If Ebony was here, he might console me, and find out ways 
and means ; but, as it is, I am left to shift for myself" 

His embarrassment was increased by the terrors of his 
party. The night was black, and they spent it in lamenta- 
tions. At length, fatigue and exhaustion made our amo- 
rous traveller fall asleep. He woke up just at day-break, 
and beheld a beautiful marble bridge thrown over the 
torrent, from one shore to the other. 

Then there were quick exclamations and shouts of as- 
tonishment and of joy. *' Is it possible ? Is it a dream? 
What a prodigy ! What enchantment ! May we venture 
to step on it?" All the party threw themselves on their 
knees, got up again, went to the bridge, kissed the earth, 
looked up to heaven, stretched out their hands, put out 
their feet as if treading on eggs, went forward, returned, 
and got into ecstasies ; and Rustan said, " For this once. 
Heaven assists me. Topaz did not know what he was 
talking about. The oracles were in my favor. Ebony 
was right ; but why is he not here ? " 



152 EBONY AND TOPAZ. 

Scarcely had they crossed the torrent, when, behold ! 
the bridge tumbled into the water with a frightful noise. 
" So much the better ! so much the better ! " cried Rustan. 
" God be praised ! Heaven be blest ! It is not its will that 
I should ever go back to my country, where I should al- 
ways have been a simple gentleman. It is destined that 
I should espouse her whom I love. I shall be the Prince 
of Cachemire, so that, by possessing my mistress, I shall 
not possess my little Candahar marquisate. / shall he 
Rustan, and I shall not he, because, forsooth, I shall be- 
come a great prince. Here is the greatest part of the 
oracle neatly explained in my favor ; and the rest will be 
explained in the same way. I am too happy; but why is 
not Ebony here by my side ? I miss him a thousand times 
more than Topaz." 

With a joyful heart, he went on for several parasangs ; 
but, at the close of day, a circling rampart of moun- 
tains, steep as a counterscarp, and higher than the tower 
of Babel would have been, had it ever been finished, bar- 
red the progress of the caravan, who were seized with 
trepidation. 

Every one cried out, " It is the will of Heaven that we 
should perish here. The bridge was destroyed only to 
take away all hopes of our returning : the mountain has 
been raised to deprive us of all means of advancing. Oh, 
Rustan! unhappy marquis! We shall never see Cache- 
mire. We shall never return to Candahar." 

The most pungent grief, the most profound depression 
of spirits, succeeded in Rustan's soul, to the immoderate 
joy he had felt, to the inebriation of hope in which he had 
indulged. He was now far from interpreting the prophe- 
cies favorable to himself " O Heaven ! must I then lose 
my friend Topaz ? " 

As he pronounced these Vv'ords, heaving heavy sighs and 
weeping abundantly, amidst his despairing followers, lo 
and behold ! the base of the mountain opened, and there 



EBONY AND TOPAZ. 153 

was seen a long vaulted gallery, illuminated with a hun- 
dred thousand torches, dazzling their eyes; and Rustan 
began to shout, and his people to throw themselves on 
their knees, and to tumble backwards from astonishment, 
and to cry out, " A miracle ! " and to exclaim, " Rustan 
is the favorite of Vishnou ; the well-beloved of Brahma: 
he will be the master of the world ! " — all which Rustan 
believed, and was beside himself, saying, " Ah, Ebony, 
my dear Ebony, where are you 1 Why cannot you behold 
all these wonders? Why have I lost you ? Sweet Prin- 
cess of Cachemire, when shall I see your beauty again 1 " 

So he travelled on, with his servants, his elephant, and 
camels, under the vaulted arch in the mountain, at the 
extremity of which he entered a plain, enamelled with 
flowers and bordered by rivulets ; and at the end of the 
field there were alleys of trees, gazing down which the 
sight was lost ; and at the end of these alleys was a river, 
along which there were a thousand pleasure-houses with 
delicious gardens ; every where were heard concerts of 
voices and instruments, and dancing was seen going on. 
Rustan made haste to cross one of the bridges thrown over 
the river. He asked the first man whom he met, " What 
beautiful country is this ? " 

The person addressed replied, " You are in the province 
of Cachemire. You see the inhabitants enjoying and dis- 
porting themselves. We are celebrating the nuptials of 
our beautiful princess, who is going to be married to Lord 
Barbabou, to whom her papa has promised her. May 
their happiness endure forever ! " At these words, Rus- 
tan fell down in a swoon ; and the Cachemirian gentleman 
supposed he was subject to epilepsy. He had him taken 
to his house, where he remained some time, without com- 
ing to his senses. They brought the two most skilful 
doctors of the province, who felt the sick man's pulse ; 
and, when he came partially to himself, he sobbed, and 
rolled about his eyes, and cried out at intervals, " Topaz ! 
Topaz ! you were right, after all." 



154 EBONY AND TOPAZ. 

One of the doctors observed to the Cachemirian gentle- 
man, "I see, by his accent, that he is a young man from 
Candahar, with whom the air of this country does not 
agree. We must send him back again to his home. I 
see by his eyes that he is crazy. Leave him to me, and I 
will take him to his own country, and cure him." The 
other doctor insisted that he was only sick with grief; 
that he must go to the wedding of the princess, and be 
made to dance. While they were in consultation, the 
patient recovered his strength ; the two doctors were dis- 
charged, and Rustan remained in company with his host 
alone. 

" My lord," said he to him, *' I beg your pardon for 
fainting away in your presence, which I know is not at 
all polite. I pray you, of your courtesy, to accept my ele- 
phant, as a mark of my gratitude for the kindness you have 
shown me." Then he related to him all his adventures, 
carefully avoiding, however, to speak of the object of his 
journey. "But," said he, " in the name of Vishnou and 
Brahma, tell me who is this lucky Barbabou, that is to 
marry the Princess of Cachemire, and why her father has 
chosen him for his son-in-law, and why the princess has 
accepted him for her spouse?" 

" My lord," said the Cachemirian to him, " the princess 
has not accepted Barbabou, at all. On the contrary, she 
is in tears, while the whole province joyously celebrates 
her nuptials. She is shut up in a tower of her palace, 
and will not witness any of the rejoicings going on upon 
her account." Rustan, on hearing these words, felt his 
spirits revive. The brilliant colors, which grief had 
caused to fade, reappeared on his countenance. '' Tell 
me, I pray you," he added, " why the Prince of Cache- 
mire is obstinately bent on giving his daughter to a Bar- 
baboii, when she don't want to have him." 

" The case is this," replied the Cachemirian. '' Do 
you know that our august prince lost a diamond and a 
dart, on which he set great store 1" " O yes, I know 



EBONY AND TOPAZ. 155 

that very well," said Rustan. " Well, then," said the 
liost, '' our prince, in despair at getting no news of his 
jewels, after hunting for them a great while all over the 
world, promised his daughter to whoever would bring him 
either of them. A Lord Barhabou came along, who had 
the diamond ; and, on the strength of it, he will marry the 
princess to-morrow." 

Rustan grew pale, stammered out a parting compliment, 
took leave of his host, and scoured off, on his dromedary, 
to the capital city, where the ceremony was to be per- 
formed. He arrived at the prince's palace, stated that he 
had matters of importance to communicate, and demanded 
an audience. He was answered, that the prince was en- 
gaged in preparing for the nuptials. *' That's the very 
reason," said he, *' why I want to talk to him." His im- 
portunity was such, that he was introduced. " Sire," said 
he, *' may Heaven crown your days with glory and mag- 
nificence. Your son-in-law is a rascal." 

" How ? a rascal ! What is it you dare to say ? Is that 
the way to talk to a Duke of Cachemire about the son-in- 
law he has chosen ? " " Yes, he is a rascal," replied 
Rustan ; '' and, to prove it to your highness, here is your 
diamond, which I have brought you." 

The duke, in utter consternation, com.pared the two 
diamonds, and, as he had little or no knowledge of such 
matters, could not tell which was genuine. " Here be 
two diamonds," said he, '' and I have only one daughter. 
See, now, what a strange quandary I am in ! " He caused 
Barhabou to be sent for, and asked him if he had not 
taken him in. Barhabou swore he had bought the dia- 
mond from an Armenian. Rustan did not tell how he 
came by Ms, but suggested an expedient, which was, that, 
with his highness's approbation, he would forthwith en- 
gage with his rival in single combat. *' It is not enough," 
said he, '' that your son-in-law gives you a diamond. He 
must also give proofs of his courage. Do you not think 
it proper, that whoever kills the other shall marry the 



156 EBONY AND TOPAZ. 

princess?" "Very proper indeed," answered the prince. 
" It will be a superb spectacle for my court. Fight one 
another directly. The conqueror shall have the arms of the 
vanquished, according to the custom of Cachemire ; and 
he shall marry my daughter." 

The two suitors descended directly into the court. A 
magpie and crow were sitting on the stairs. The crow 
cried, "Fight away, fight away;" the magpie, "Don't 
fight." This made his highness laugh. The two rivals 
scarce regarded it, and commenced the conflict, all the 
courtiers making a ring round them. The princess, keep- 
ing herself still shut up in her tower, would not attend the 
exhibition. She had not the least suspicion that her lover 
was at Cachemire, and had such a horror of Barhahou, 
that she would not see him. The combat was despatched 
with great expedition. Barhahou was killed in short or- 
der ; and the people were delighted, because he was ugly, 
and Rustan was very handsome. This is what almost al- 
ways wins the favor of the public. 

The conqueror put on the coat of mail, scarf, and hel- 
met of the vanquished, and marched, followed by all the 
court, with a flourish of trumpets, to present himself under 
the window of his mistress. All the people cried out, 
" Beautiful princess, come and see your beautiful husband, 
who has killed his rascally rival ! " Her women repeated 
these words. The princess, unluckily, put her head in 
the window, and, seeing the armor of the man she detest- 
ed, ran, in despair, to her Chinese cabinet, and drew forth 
the fatal dart, which flew to transfix her dear Rustan, in 
spite of his cuirass. He uttered a piercing cry ; and in 
that cry the princess thought she recognized the voice of 
her unhappy lover. 

She came down, all dishevelled, with death in her eyes 
and in her heart. Rustan had already fallen, covered 
with blood, into the arms of her father. She saw him. 
Oh, what a moment! Oh, what a sight! Oh, what a 
recognition, whose grief, and tenderness, and horror, none 



EBONY AND TOPAZ. 157 

can describe ! She threw herself upon him, and embraced 
him. " Receive," she cried, '' the first and last kisses of 
thy lover and thy murderess ! " She plucked the dart from 
the wound, plunged it into her own bosom, and died upon 
the lover she adored. Her father, terrified, confounded, 
almost as dead as herself, strove in vain to recall her to 
life. She was no more. He cursed the fatal dart, broke 
it into pieces, threw far from him the two fatal jewels, and, 
while they were making preparations for his daughter's 
funeral, instead of her marriage, directed them to carry 
into the palace the bleeding Rustan, who yet showed 
symptoms of life. 

They put him to bed. On that death-bed, the first 
thing he saw, standing on each side, was Topaz and Eb- 
ony. His surprise brought back a little strength. " Ah, 
cruel men," said he, " why did you forsake me? Perhaps 
the princess would be yet living, if you had been near the 
unhappy Rustan." " I never deserted you for a single 
moment," said Topaz. " I have always been near you," 
said Ebony. 

'' Oh ! what is it you say ? Why thus mock me in my 
last moments 1 " said Rustan, with a languid voice. 
" You may believe me," said Topaz. " You know I never 
approved of this fatal journey, the horrible fruits of which 
I foresaw. I was the eagle who fought with the vulture, 
and plucked out his feathers. I was the elephant who 
carried the baggage, in order to force you to return to 
your own country. I was the streaked ass, who was bear- 
ing you home to your father, in spite of yourself. It was 
I who sent your horses astray. I made the torrent, which 
stopped your passage ; I raised the mountain, which shut 
you out from your fatal route. I was the doctor, who pre- 
scribed your native air. I was the magpie, who cried out 
to you not to fight." 

" And I," said Ebony, " I was the vulture whom the 
eagle plucked ; the rhinoceros, who gave the elephant a 
14 



158 EBONY AND TOPAZ. 

hundred blows with his horns ; the peasant, who flogged 
thB streaked ass ; the merchant, who gave you the camels 
to proceed with to your destruction. I built the bridge, 
over which you crossed. I dug out the cavern, through 
which you passed. I was the doctor, who advised your 
proceeding ; the crow, who cried out to you to fight." 

"Alas! remember the oracles," said Topaz. '-'■ Jf you 
go to the east, you loill he toward the tvest.'^ " Yes," said 
Ebony, '* they bury the dead here, with their faces turned 
toward the west. The oracle was clear enough. How 
came you not to understand it ? You were possessed, and 
did not possess ; for you had the diamond, but it was a 
false one ; and you knew nothing about it. You are con- 
queror, and you are dying. You are Rustan, and you are 
ceasing to be so. All has been accomplished." 

While he thus spoke, four white wings covered the 
body of Topaz, and four black wings that of Ebony. 
'* What do I behold ? " cried Rustan. Topaz and Ebony 
replied together, "Thou seest thy two genii." "Oh, 
gentlemen," said the unlucky Rustan to them, "why did 
you meddle with this business 1 Why two genii for one 
poor man ? " " That's the law," said Topaz : " every 
body has his two genii. Plato said so first, and others have 
repeated it after him. Thou seest nothing is more true. 
I, who speak to thee, am thy good genius ; and it was my 
business to watch over thee, to the last moment of thy 
life — a trust which I have conscientiously discharged." 

" But," said the dying man, " if it was thy duty to wait 
on me, I am then of an order far superior to thine ; and, 
that being the case, how darest thou tell me that thou art 
my good genius, when thou hast suffered me to be foiled 
in all my undertakings, and thou now sufferest me and 
my mistress to die miserably?" " Alas ! it was thy des- 
tiny," said Topaz. " What, then, is a genius good for? 
And thou. Ebony, with thy four black wings, thou art, it 
seems, my evil genius ? " " You have said it," answered 



EBONY AND TOPAZ. 159 

Ebony. " But wast thou also the evil genius of my prin- 
cess?" "No; she had her own. I have helped him 
regularly." " Oh ! cursed Ebony ! since thou art so 
wicked, thou dost not belong to the same master with 
Topaz. You were severally formed by different princi- 
ples, one of which is good, and the other evil, in its na- 
ture." " That does not follow of course," said Ebony ; 
** but it is a very difficult point." " It is not possible," 
said the sufferer, "that a benevolent being should create 
so baleful a genius." " Possible or not possible," said 
Ebony, " the fact is as I tell thee." " Alas 1 " said To- 
paz, "my poor friend, dost thou not see that this knave 
has yet the malice to make thee get into an argument, to 
heat thy blood, and hasten the hour of thy death ?" " Be- 
gone ! I am scarcely better pleased with thee than with 
him," said the sorrowful Rustan. " He, at least, avows 
that he meant to do me mischief; and thou, who pretend- 
est to be my guardian, thou hast been to me of no sort of 
service." " I am very sorry for it," said the good genius. 
" So am I," said the moribund man. " There is some- 
thing about this that I don't understand." " Nor I either," 
said the poor good genius, '' I shall find it out soon," 
said Rustan. " That is as it may be," said Topaz. Then 
the whole scene vanished. Rustan found himself in his 
father's house, whence he had never departed, and in his 
own bed, where he had been asleep for an hour. 

He awoke with a start, perspiring all over, and quite 
bewildered. He handled himself, called, cried out, and 
rung for his valet. Topaz ran to him in his nightcap, 
yawning woundily. " Am I dead? Am I in the land of 
the living?" cried Rustan. " The beautiful Princess of 
Cachemire, will she recover ? " " Is my lord dream- 
ing ? " coolly asked Topaz. " Ah ! " said Rustan, " what 
has become, then, of that barbarous Ebony, with his four 
black wings ? It was he who made me die by a death so 
cruel." " My lord, I left him snoring up aloft. Shall he 



160 EBONY AND TOPAZ, 

be told to come down ? " " The scoundrel ! it is now six 
months that he has been persecuting me. It was he who 
took me to that fatal fair at Cabul. It was he who jock- 
eyed me out of the diamond which the princess gave me. 
He was the only cause of my journey, of the death of my 
princess, and of the wound with the dart, by which I am 
dying in the flovrer of my youth." 

" Console yourself," said Topaz ; '' you have never been 
to Cabul. There is no Princess of Cachemire. The 
prince has only two sons, who are now at college. You 
never had any diamond. The princess can't be dead, 
because she never was born ; and you are in charming 
good health." 

" How ? Is it not true that you attended my death-bed 
in the palace of the Prince of Cachemire 1 Did you not 
confess, that, to protect me from so many evils, you had 
been an eagle, elephant, streaked ass, doctor, and mag- 
pie ? " " My lord, you have dreamed all that. Our ideas 
are no more under our own control when asleep than 
when awake. It has pleased Heaven that this train of 
ideas should pass through your head, in order, it should 
seem, to give you a lesson which may be profitable." 

" Thou art jesting with me," quoth Rustan. " How 
long have I been asleep 1 " " My lord, you have not been 
asleep more than one hour." " Why, you most abomina- 
ble of logicians, how do you suppose that in an hour's 
time I should have been at the fair at Cabul six months 
ago, have gotten back, made a journey to Cachemire, and 
all three of us be dead, Barbabou, the princess, and I?" 
" My lord, there is nothing more easy and common; and 
you might actually have made the tour of the world, and 
had many more adventures, in much less time. Is it not 
true that you can read in one hour the abridgment of the 
Persian history, written by Zoroaster ? Yet that abridg- 
ment comprises eight hundred thousand years. All the 
events it records pass before your eyes, one after the other, 



EBONY AND TOPAZ. 161 

in one hour. Now, you will grant me, that it is as easy 
for Brahma to compress them all within the compass of 
an hour, as to extend them over a period of eight hundred 
thousand years. It is an instance exactly in point. Im- 
agine to yourself that time revolves on a wheel, whose 
diameter is infinite. Within this immense wheel are an 
innumerable multitude of wheels, one within another. 
That which is central is imperceptible, and makes an in- 
finite number of revolutions, precisely in the same time 
that the great wheel performs one. It is obvious, that all 
events, from the creation of the world to its end, might 
happen, successively, in less time than the hundred thou- 
sandth part of a second. And we may even say that such 
is the fact." 

" I don't understand a word of that," said Rustan. 

" If you please," said Topaz, "I have a parrot, who 
will make you comprehend it very easily. He was born 
some time before the deluge, was in the ark, and has seen 
a great deal. For all that, he is only a year and a half 
old. He will tell you his story, which is very interesting." 

" Go, instantly, and find your parrot," said Rustan : 
" he will amuse me till I can fall asleep again." 

" He is with my sister, the nun," said Topaz. " I will 
go and find him. You will be pleased with him. His 
memory is faithful. He tells his story with simplicity, 
without trying to show his wit all the while, and without 
making fine sentences." 

"All the better," said Rustan ; " that is just the way in 
which I like to hear stories." The parrot was brought, 
who spoke to him as follows : 

[N. B. Miss Catherine Vade was never able to find 
the parrot's story in the portfolio of her cousin, Anthony 
Vade, author of this tale. It is a great pity, considering 
how long that parrot had lived.] 
14* 



162 THE THREE ADVICES. 



THE THREE ADVICES. 



There once came, wliat of late happened so often in 
Ireland, a hard year. When the crops failed, there was 
beggary and misfortune from one end of the island to 
the other. At that time, a great many poor people 
had to quit the country, from want of employment, and 
through the high price of provisions. Among others, 
John Carson was under the necessity of going over to 
England, to try if he could get work, .and of leaving 
his wife and family behind him, begging for a bite and a 
sup up and down, and trusting to the charity of good 
Christians. 

John was a smart young fellow, handy at any work, 
from the hay-field to the stable, and willing to earn the 
bread he ate ; and he was soon engaged by a gentleman. 
The English are mighty strict upon Irish servants : he was 
to have twelve guineas a year wages ; but the money was 
not to be paid until the end of the year, and he was to 
forfeit the entire twelve guineas in the lump, if he miscon- 
ducted himself, in any way, within the twelve months. 
John Carson was, to be sure, upon his best behavior, and 
conducted himself, in every particular, so well, for the 
whole time, there was no faulting him late or early ; and 
the wages were fairly his. 

The term of his agreement being expired, he determin- 
ed on returning home, notwithstanding his master, who 
had a great regard for him, pressed him to remain, and 
asked him if he had any reason to be dissatisfied with his 
treatment. 

"No reason in life, sir," said John: ''you've been a 
good master and a kind master to me : the Lord spare 
you over your family: but I left a wife with two small 
-children of my own at home, after me in Ireland ; and 



THE THREE ADVICES. 1S3 

your honor would never wish to keep me from them 
entirely — the wife and the children ! " 

"Well, John," said the gentleman, "you have earned 
your twelve guineas: and you have been, in every respect, 
so good a servant, that, if you agree, I intend giving you 
what is worth the twelve guineas ten times over, in place 
of your wages. But you shall have your choice : will you 
take what I offer, on my word ? " 

John saw no reason to think that his master was jest- 
ing with him, or was insincere in making the offer, and, 
therefore, after slight consideration, told him that he 
agreed to take, as his wages, whatever he would advise, 
whether it was the twelve guineas or not. 

" Then listen attentively to my words," said the gen- 
tleman. 

" First, I would teach you this — ' Never to take a by- 
road, when you have the high-way.' 

" Secondly, ' Take heed not to lodge in the house 
where an old man is married to a young woman.' 

"And thirdly, 'Remember that honesty is the best 
policy.' 

"These are the three advices I would pay you with; 
and they are, in value, far beyond any gold : however, 
here is a guinea for your travelling charges, and two cakes, 
one of which you must give to your wife, and the other 
you must not eat yourself until you have done so; and I 
charge you to be careful of them," 

It was not without some reluctance on the part of John 
Carson, that he was brought to accept mere words for 
wages, or could be persuaded that they were more precious 
than golden guineas. His faith in his master was, how- 
ever, so strong, that he at length became satisfied. 

John set out for Ireland the next morning early; but 
he had not proceeded far, before he overtook two pedlers, 
who were travelling the same way. He entered into con- 
versation with them, and found them a pair of merry fel- 



164 THE THREE ADVICES. 

lows, who proved excellent company on the road. Now, it 
happened, towards the end of their day's journey, when 
they were all tired with walking, that they came to a wood, 
through which there was a path that shortened the distance 
to the town they were going towards, by two miles. The 
pedlers advised John to go with them through the wood ; 
but he refused to leave the highway, telling them, at the 
same time, he would meet them again at a certain house in 
the town, where travellers put up. John was willing to try 
the worth of the advice which his master had given him ; 
and he arrived in safety, and took up his quarters at the 
appointed place. While he was eating his supper, an old 
man came hobbling into the kitchen, and gave orders 
about different matters there, and then went out again. 
John would have taken no particular notice of this ; but, 
immediately after, a young woman — young enough to be 
the old man's daughter — came in, and gave orders exactly 
the contrary of what the old man had given, calling him, 
at the same time, a great many hard names, such as old 
fool, and old dotard, and so on. 

When she was gone, John inquired who the old man 
was. " He is the landlord," said the servant ; " and, 
Heaven help him ! a dog's life he has led since he married 
his last wife." 

"What," said John with surprise, "is that young 
woman the landlord's wife ? I see I must not remain in 
this house to-night ; " and, tired as he was, he got up to 
leave it, but went no farther than the door, before he met 
the two pedlers, all cut and bleeding, coming in ; for they 
had been robbed and almost murdered in the wood. John 
was very sorry to see them in that condition, and advised 
them not to lodge in the house, telling them, with a sig- 
nificant nod, that all was not right there ; but the poor 
pedlers were so weary and so bruised, that they would 
stop where they were, and disregarded the advice. 

Rather than remain in the house, John retired to the 



THE THREE ADVICES. 165 

stable, and laid himself down upon a bundle of straw, 
where he slept soundly for some time. About the middle of 
the night, he heard two persons come into the stable, and, 
on listening to their conversation, discovered that it was 
the landlady and a man, laying a plan how to murder her 
husband. In the morning, John renewed his journey ; but, 
at the next town he came to, he was told that the landlord 
in the town he had left had been murdered, and that two 
pedlers, whose clothes were found all covered with blood, 
had been taken up for the crime, and were going to be 
hanged. John, without mentioning to any person what he 
had overheard, determined to save the pedlers, if possible, 
and so returned, to attend their trial. 

On going into the court, he saw the two men at the bar ; 
and the young woman and the man, whose voices he had 
heard in the stable, swearing their innocent lives away. 
But the judge allowed him to give his evidence, and he 
told every particular of what had occurred. The man 
and the young woman instantly confessed their guilt: the 
poor pedlers were at once acquitted ; and the judge order- 
ed a large reward to be paid to John Carson, as, through 
his means, the real murderers were brought to justice. 

John now proceeded towards home, fully convinced of 
the value of two of the advices which his master had given 
him. On arriving at his cabin, he found his wife and chil- 
dren rejoicing over a purse full of gold, which the eldest 
boy had picked up on the road that morning. Whilst he 
was away, they had endured all the miseries which the 
wretched families of those who go over to seek work in 
England are exposed to. With precarious food, without 
a bed to lie down on, or a roof to shelter them, they had 
wandered through the country, seeking food from door to 
door of a starving population, and, when a single potato 
was bestowed, showering down blessings and thanks on 
the giver, not in the set phrases of the mendicant, but in a 
burst of eloquence too fervid not to gush direct from the 



166 THE THREE ADVICES. 

heart. Those only who have seen a family of such beg=- 
gars as I describe, can fancy the joy with which the poor 
woman welcomed her husband back, and told him of the 
purse full of gold. 

" And where did Mick — ma holiil* — find it? " inquired 
John Carson. 

" It was the young squire, for certain, who dropped it," 
said his wife ; " for he rode down the road this morning, 
and was leaping his horse in the very gap where Micky 
picked it up ; but sure, John, he has money enough be- 
sides ; and never the halfpenny have I to buy my poor 
childer a bit to eat this blessed night." 

"Never mind that," said John; ** do as I bid you, and 
take up the purse at once to the big house, and ask for 
the young squire. I have too cakes which I brought every 
step of the way with me from England, and they will do 
for the children's supper. I ought surely to remember, as 
good right I have, what my master told me for my twelve 
months' wages, seeing I never, as yet, found what he said 
to be wrong." 

"And what did he say?" inquired his wife. 

" That honesty is the best policy," answered John. 

" 'Tis very well, and 'tis mighty easy for them to say so, 
that have never been sore tempted, by distress and famine, 
to say otherwise; but your bidding is enough for me, 
John." 

Straightway she went to the big house, and inquired for 
the young squire ; but she was denied the liberty to speak 
to him. 

" You must tell me your business, honest woman," said 
a servant, with a head all powdered and frizzled like a 
cauliflower, and who had on a coat covered with gold and 
silver lace, and buttons, and every thing in the world. 

" If you knew but all," said she, " I am an honest 

* My boy. 



THE THREE ADVICES. 167 

woman , for I've brought a purse full of gold to the young 
master, that my little boy picked up by the road-side ; for 
surely it is his, as nobody else could have so much 
money." 

*' Let me see it," said the servant. *' Ay, it's all right. 
I'll take care of it. You need not trouble yourself any 
more about the matter ; " and so saying, he slapped the 
door in her face. When she returned, her husband pro- 
duced the two cakes which his master gave him on part- 
ing; and, breaking one to divide between his children, 
how was he astonished at finding six golden guineas in it! 
and when he took the other and broke it, he found as 
many more. He then remembered the words of his gen- 
erous master, who desired him to give one of the cakes to 
his wife, and not to eat the other himself until that time ; 
and this was the way his master took to conceal his wages, 
lest he should have been robbed, or have lost the money 
on the road. 

The following day, as John was standing near his 
cabin door, and turning over in his own mind what he 
should do with his money, the young squire came riding 
down the road. John palled off his hat, — for he had not 
forgot his manners through the means of his travelling to 
foreign parts, — and then made so bold as to inquire if his 
honor had got the purse he lost. 

"Why, it is true enough, my good fellow," said the 
squire, " I did lose my purse yesterday, and I hope you 
were lucky enough to find it ; for, if that is your cabin, 
you seem to be very poor, and shall keep it as a reward 
for your honesty." 

" Then the servant up at the big house never gave it to 
your honor last night, after taking it from Nance, — she's 
my wife, your honor, — and telling her it was all right?" 

*' O, I must look into this business," said the squire. 

"Did you say your wife, my poor man, gave my purse 
to a servant? To what servant? " 



tj6f8 THE THREE ADVICES. 

" I can't tell his name rightly," said John, " because I 
don't know it; but never trust Nance's eyes again, if she 
can't point him out to your honor, if so your honor is de- 
sirous of knowing." 

" Then do you and Nance, as you call her, come up to 
the hall this evening, and I'll inquire into the matter, I 
promise you." So saying, the squire rode off. 

John and his wife went up, accordingly, in the evening, 
and he gave a small rap, with the big knocker, at the great 
door. The door was opened by a grand servant, who, 
without hearing what the poor people had to say, exclaim- 
ed, *'0 go! — go! — what business can you have here?'' 
and shut the door. 

John's wife burst out crying — " There," said she, sob- 
bing as if her heart would break, " I knew that would be 
the end of it." 

But John had not been in merry England merely to get 
his twelve guineas packed in two cakes. " No," said he, 
firmly, " right is right; and I'll see the end of it." So he 
sat himself down on the step of the door, determined not 
to go until he saw the young squire; and, as it happened, 
it was not long before he came out. 

"I have been expecting you some time, John," said he; 
*' come in, and bring your wife in;" and he made them go 
before him into the house. Immediately, he directed all 
the servants to come up stairs; and such an army of them 
as there was ! It was a real sight to see them. 

" Which of you," said the young squire, without making 
further words, " which of you all did this honest woman 
give my purse to?" But there was no answer. "Well, I 
suppose she must be mistaken, unless she can tell herself." 

John's wife at once pointed her finger towards the head 
footman. " There he is," said she, " if all the world were 
to the fore — clargyman — magistrate — ^judge — ^jury and all 
— there he is, and I'm ready to take my Bible oath to him; 
— there he is who told me it was all right when he took 



THE CITY OF THE DEMONS. 169 

the purse, and slammed the door in my face, without as 
much as Thank ye for it." 

The conscious footman turned pale. 

"What is this I hear?" said his master. " If this 
woman gave you my purse, William, why did you not give 
it to me ? " 

The servant stammered out a denial; but his master in- 
sisted on his being searched, and the purse was found in 
his pocket. 

"John," said the gentleman, turning round, "you 
shall be no loser by this affair. Here are ten guineas for 
you. Go home now; but I will not forget your wife's 
honesty." 

Within a month, John Carson was settled in a nice, 
new-slated house, which the squire had furnished and 
made ready for him. What with his wages, the reward 
he got from the judge, and the ten guineas for returning 
the purse, he was well to do in the world, and was soon 
able to stock a small farm, where he lived reppected all 
his days. On his death-bed, he gave his children the very 
three advices which his master had given him on parting : 

Never to take a by-road, when they could follow the 
highway ; 

Never to lodge in the house where an old man was 
married to a young woman ; 

And, above all, to remember that honesty is the best 
policy. 

T. Crofton Croker. 



THE CITY OF THE DEMONS. 

In days of yore, there lived, in the flourishing city 
of Cairo, a Hebrew rabbi, by name Jochonan, who was 
15 



170 THE CITY OF THE DEMONS. 

the most learned of his nation. His fame went over the 
East ; and the most distant people sent their young men to 
imbibe wisdom from his lips. He was deeply skilled in 
the traditions of the fathers; and his word on a disputed 
point was decisive. He was pious, just, temperate, and 
strict; but he had one vice — a love of gold had seized 
upon his heart, and he opened not his hand to the poor. 
Yet he was wealthy above most, his wisdom being to him 
the source of riches. The Hebrews of the city were griev- 
ed at this blemish on the wisest of their people ; but, though 
the elders of the tribes continued to reverence him for his 
fame, the women and children of Cairo called him by no 
other name than that of Rabbi Jochonan the miser. 

None knew, so well as he, the ceremonies necessary for 
initiation into the religion of Moses ; and, consequently, 
the exercise of those solemn offices was to him another 
source of gain. One day, as he walked in the fields about 
Cairo, conversing with a youth on the interpretation of 
the law, it so happened, that the angel of death smote the 
young man suddenly, and he fell dead before the feet of 
the rabbi, even while he was yet speaking. When the 
rabbi found that the youth was dead, he rent his gar- 
ments, and glorified the Lord. But his heart was touch- 
ed, and the thoughts of death troubled him in the visions 
of the night. He felt uneasy when he reflected on his 
hardness to the poor; and he said, "Blessed be the name 
of the Lord ! The first good thing that I am asked to do, 
in that holy name, will I perform." But he sighed, for 
he feared that some one might ask of him a portion of 
his gold. 

While yet he thought upon these things, there came a 
loud cry at his gate. 

^' Awake, thou sleeper ! " said the voice, " awake ! A 
child is in danger of death, and the mother hath sent me 
for thee, that thou mayest do thine office." 

** The night is dark and gloomy," said the rabbi, 



THE CITY OF THE DEMONS. 171 

coming to his casement, " and mine age is great. Are 
there not younger men than I in Cairo? " 

" For thee only, Rabbi Jochonan, whom some call the 
wise, but whom others call Rabbi Jochonan the miser, 
was I sent. Here is gold," said he, taking out a purse of 
sequins. " I want not thy labor for nothing. I adjure 
thee to come, in the name of the living God." 

So the rabbi thought upon the vow he had just made; 
and he groaned in spirit, for the purse sounded heavy. 

" As thou hast adjured me by that name, I go with 
thee," said he to the man; " but I hope the distance is not 
far. Put up thy gold." 

" The place is at hand," said the stranger, who was a 
gallant youth, in magnificent attire. " Be speedy, for 
time presses." 

Jochonan arose, dressed himself, and accompanied the 
stranger, after having carefully locked up all the doors of 
his house, and deposited his keys in a secret place — at 
which the stranger smiled. 

" I never remember," said the rabbi, '' so dark a night. 
Be thou to me as a guide, for I can hardly see the way." 

*' I know it well," replied the stranger with a sigh : " it 
is a way much frequented, and travelled hourly by many. 
Lean upon mine arm, and fear not." 

They journeyed on ; and, though the darkness was 
great, yet the rabbi could see, when it occasionally bright- 
ened, that he was in a place strange to him. " I thought," 
said he, " I knew all the country for leagues about Cairo; 
yet I know not where I am. I hope, young man," said 
he to his companion, '*that thou hast not missed the way." 
And his heart misgave him. 

♦* Fear not," returned the stranger. " Your journey is 
even now done." And, as he spoke, the feet of the rabbi 
slipped from under him, and he rolled down a great height. 
When he recovered, he found that his companion had 
fallen also, and stood by his side. 



172 THE CITY OF THE DEMONS. 

*' Nay, young man," said the rabbi, " if thus thou 
sportest with the gray hairs of age, thy days are number- 
ed. Wo unto him who insults the hoary head ! " 

The stranger made an excuse, and they journeyed on 
some little further in silence. The darkness grew less ; 
and the astonished rabbi, lifting up his eyes, found that 
they had come to the gates of a city which he had never 
before seen. Yet he knew all the cities of the land of 
Egypt, and he had walked but hatf an hour from his 
dwelling in Cairo. So he knew not what to think, but 
followed the man with trembling. 

They soon entered the gates of the city, which was 
lighted up as if there were a festival in every house. The 
streets were full of revellers ; and nothing but a sound of 
joy could be heard. But when Jochonan looked upon 
their faces, they were the faces of men pained within ; 
and he saw, by the marks they bore, that they were 
Mazikin.* He was terrified in his soul ; and, by the 
light of the torches, he looked also upon the face of his 
companion, and, behold! he saw upon him, too, the mark 
that showed him to be a demon. The rabbi feared ex- 
cessively ; almost to fainting ; but he thought it better to 
be silent ; and sadly he followed his guide, who brought 
him to a splendid house, in the most magnificent quarter 
of the city. 

"Enter here," said the demon to Jochonan, '' for this 
house is mine. The lady and the child are in the upper 
chamber." And, accordingly, the sorrowful rabbi as- 
cended the stair to find them. 

The lady, whose dazzling beauty was shrouded by 
melancholy beyond hope, lay in bed : the child, in rich 
raiment, slumbered on the lap of the nurse, by her side. 

*'I have brought to thee, light of my eyes!" said the 
demon, " Rebecca, beloved of my soul ! I have brought 

* Demons. 



THE CITY OF THE DEMONS. 173 

thee Rabbi Jochonan the wise, whom thou didst desire. 
Let him, then, speedily begin his office. I shall fetch all 
things necessary ; for he is in haste to depart." 

He smiled bitterly as he said these words, looking at the 
rabbi, and left the room, followed by the nurse. 

When Jochonan and the lady were alone, she turned in 
the bed towards him, and said — 

" Unhappy man that thou art ! knowest thou where 
thou hast been brought? " 

'* I do," said he, with a heavy groan ; " I know that I 
am in a city of the Mazikin." 

" Know then, further," said she, — and the tears gushed 
from eyes brighter than the diamond, — " know then, fur- 
ther, that no one is ever brought here, unless he hath 
sinned before the Lord. What my sin hath been imports 
not to thee ; and I seek not to know thine. But here 
thou remainest forever — lost, even as I am lost." And 
she wept again. 

The rabbi dashed his turban on the ground, and, tear- 
ing his hair, exclaimed, '* Wo is me ! Who art thou, 
woman, that speakest to me thus?" 

"I am a Hebrew woman," said she, "the daughter of 
a doctor of the laws, in the city of Bagdad ; and, being 
brought hither, it matters not how, I am married to a 
prince among the Mazikin, even him who was sent for 
thee. And that child, whom thou sawest, is our first- 
born ; and I could not bear the thought that the soul of 
our innocent babe should perish. I therefore besought 
my husband to try to bring hither a priest, that the law of 
Moses (blessed be his memory !) should be done ; and thy 
fame, which has spread to Bagdad, and lands farther to- 
wards the rising of the sun, made me think of thee. Now, 
my husband, though great among the Mazikin, is more 
just than the other demons; and he loves me, whom he 
hath ruined, with a love of despair. So he said, that the 
name of Jochonan the wise was familiar unto him, and 
15* 



174 THE CITY OF THE DEMONS. 

that he knew thou wouldst not be able to refuse. What 
thou hast done, to give him power over thee, is linown to 
thyself." 

" I swear, before Heaven," said the rabbi, ''that I have 
ever diligently kept the law, and walked steadfastly ac- 
cording to the traditions of our fathers, from the day of 
my youth upward. I have wronged no man in word or 
deed; and I have daily worshipped the Lord, minutely 
performing all the ceremonies thereto needful." 

"Nay," said the lady, "all this thou mightest have 
done, and more, and yet be in the power of the demons. 
But time passes ; for I hear the foot of my husband mount- 
ing the stair. There is one chance of thine escape." 

" What is that, O lady of beauty ! " said the agonized 
rabbi. 

"Eat not, drink not, nor take fee or reward while here; 
and as long as thou canst do thus, the Mazikin have no 
power over thee, dead or alive. Have courage, and per- 
severe." 

As she ceased from speaking, her husband entered the 
room, followed by the nurse, who bore all things requisite 
for the ministration of the rabbi. With a heavy heart, he 
performed his duty; and the child was numbered among 
the faithful. But when, as usual, at the conclusion of the 
ceremony, the wine was handed round to be tasted by the 
child, the mother, and the rabbi, he refused it, when it 
came to him, saying, 

"Spare me, my lord, for I have made a vow that I fast 
this day; and I will eat not, neither will I drink." 

" Be it as thou pleasest," said the demon : " I will not 
that thou shouldest break thy vow." And he laughed 
aloud. 

So the poor rabbi was taken into a chamber, looking 
into a garden, where he passed the remainder of the night 
and the day, weeping, and praying to the Lord, that he 
would deliver him from the city of demons. But when 



THE CITY OF THE DEMONS. 175 

the twelfth hour camej and the sun was set, the prince of 
the Mazikin came again unto him, and said, 

" Eat now, I pray thee, for the day of thy vow is past." 
And he set meat before him. 

" Pardon again thy servant, my lord," said Jochonan, 
" in this thing. I have another vow for this day also. I 
pray thee be not angry with thy servant." 

"I am not angry," said the demon: ''be it as thou 
pleasest : I respect thy vow." And he laughed louder 
than before. 

So the rabbi sat another day in his chamber by the gar- 
den, weeping and praying. And when the sun had gone 
behind the hills, the prince of the Mazikin again stood 
before him, and said, 

"Eat now, for thou must be an hungered. It was a 
sore vow of thine." And he offeied him daintier meats. 

And Jochonan felt a strong desire to eat; but he prayed 
inwardly to the Lord, and the temptation passed, and he 
answered, 

" Excuse thy servant yet a third time, my lord, that I 
eat not. I have renewed my vow." 

" Be it so, then," said the other: "arise, and follow me." 

The demon took a torch in his hand, and led the rabbi 
through winding passages of his palace, to the door of a 
lofty chamber, which he opened with a key that he took 
from a niche in the wall. On entering the room, Jocho- 
nan saw that it was of solid silver — floor, ceiling, walls, 
even to the threshold and the door-posts. And the curi- 
ously carved roof and borders of the ceiling shone in the 
torch-light, as if they were the fanciful work of frost. In 
the midst were heaps of silver money, piled up in im- 
mense urns of the same metal, even over the brim. 

" Thou hast done me a serviceable act, rabbi," said the 
demon : " take of these what thou pleasest ; ay, were it the 
whole." 

**I cannot, my lord," said Jochonan. "I was adjured 



176 THE CITY OF THE DEMONS. 

by thee to come hither in the name of God ; and in that 
name I came, not for fee or for reward." 

" Follow me," said the prince of the Mazikin ; and Jo- 
chonan did so, into an inner chamber. 

It was of gold, as the other was of silver. Its golden 
roof was supported by pillars and pilasters of gold, rest- 
ing upon a golden floor. The treasures of the kings of 
the earth would not purchase one of the four-and-twenty 
vessels of golden coins, which were disposed in six rows 
along the room. No wonder! for they were filled by the 
constant labors of the demons of the min.e. The heart of 
Jochonan was moved by avarice, when he saw them shin- 
ing in yellow light, like the autumnal sun, as they reflect- 
ed the beams of the torch. But God enabled him to 
persevere. 

"These are thine," said the demon : "one of the ves- 
sels which thou beholdest, would make thee richest of the 
sons of men ; and I give thee them all." 

But Jochonan refused again ; and the prince of the 
Mazikin opened the door of a third chamber, which was 
called the Hall of Diamonds. When the rabbi entered, 
he screamed aloud, and put his hands over his eyes; for 
the lustre of the jewels dazzled him, as if he had looked 
upon the noonday sun. In vases of agate were heaped 
diamonds beyond numeration, the smallest of which was 
larger than a pigeon's egg. On alabaster tables lay 
amethysts, topazes, rubies, beryls, and all other precious 
stones, wrought by the .hands of skilful artists, beyond 
power of computation. The room was lighted by a car- 
buncle, which, from the end of the hall, poured its ever- 
living light, brighter than the rays of noontide, but cooler 
than the gentle radiance of the dewy moon. This was a 
sore trial on the rabbi ; but he was strengthened from 
above, and he refused again. 

" Thou knowest me, then, I perceive, O Jochonan, son 
of Ben-David," said the prince of the Mazikin. " I am a 



THE CITY OF THE DEMONS. 177 

demon, who would tempt thee to destruction. As thou hast 
withstood so far, I tempt thee no more. Thou hast done 
a service which, though I value it not, is acceptable in the 
sight of her whose love is dearer to me than the light of 
life. Sad has been that love to thee, my Rebecca ! Why 
should I do that which would make thy cureless grief 
more grievous ? — You have yet another chamber to see," 
said he to Jochonan, who had closed his eyes, and was 
praying fervently to the Lord, beating his breast. 

Far different from the other chambers, the one into 
which the rabbi was next introduced was a mean and 
paltry apartment, without furniture. On its filthy walls 
hung innumerable bunches of rusty keys, of all sizes, dis- 
posed without order. Among them, to the astonishment 
of Jochonan, hung the keys of his own house, those which 
he had put to hide when he came on this miserable jour- 
ney ; and he gazed upon them intently. 

''What dost thou see," said the demon, "that makes 
thee look so eagerly ? Can he who has refused silver, and 
gold, and diamonds, be moved by a paltry bunch of rusty 
iron?" 

" They are mine own, my lord," said the rabbi: " them 
will I take, if they be offered me." 

" Take them, then," said the demon, putting them into 
his hand : " thou mayest depart. But, rabbi, open not thy 
house only, when thou returnest to Cairo, but thy heart 
also. That thou didst not open it before, was that which 
gave me power over thee. It was well that thou didst one 
act of charity in coming with me without reward ; for it 
has been thy salvation. Be no more Rabbi Jochonan 
the miser." 

The rabbi bowed to the ground, and blessed the Lord 
for his escape. " But how," said he, "am I to return? for 
I krv w not the way." 

" Close thine eyes," said the demon. He did so, and, in 



178 THE CITY OF THE DEMONS. 

the space of a moment, heard the voice of the prince of 
the Mazikin ordering him to open them again. And, be- 
hold, when he opened them, he stood in the centre of his 
own chamber, in his house at Cairo, with the keys in his 
hand. 

When he recovered from his surprise, and had offered 
thanksgivings to God, he opened his house, and his heart 
also. He gave alms to the poor ; he cheered the heart of 
the widow, and lightened the destitution of the orphan. 
His hospitable board was open to the stranger, and his 
purse was at the service of all who needed to share it. 
His life was a perpetual act of benevolence, and the bless- 
ings showered upon him by all were returned bountifully 
upon him by the hand of God. 

But people wondered, and said, " Is not this the man 
who was called Rabbi Jochonan the miser ? What hath 
made the change ? " And it became a saying in Cairo. 
When it came to the ears of the rabbi, he called his 
friends together, and he avowed his former love of gold, 
and the danger to which it had exposed him, relating all 
which has been above told, in the hall of the new palace 
that he built by the side of the river, on the left hand, as 
thou goest down the course of the great stream. And wise 
men, who were scribes, wrote it down from his mouth, for 
the memory of mankind, that they might profit thereby. 
And a venerable man, with a beard of snow, who had 
read it in these books, and at whose feet I sat, that I might 
learn the wisdom of the old time, told it to me. And I 
write it in the tongue of England, the merry and the free, 
on the tenth day of the month Nisan, in the year, accord- 
ing to the lesser supputation, five hundred ninety and 
seven, that thou mayest learn good thereof; if not, the 
fault be upon thee. 

William Maglm^. 



BOHDO. 179 



BOHDO;— A GERMAN TRADITIONARY TALE. 

More than a thousand years ago, all the country about 
the Hartz was inhabited by giants, who were heathens and 
sorcerers. They knew no joy but in murder and rapine. 
If all other weapons failed them, they would tear up oaks 
of sixty years' growth, and fight with them. Whoever 
came in their way fell beneath their clubs ; and all the 
women whom they could seize were carried off. 

One of these giants, called Bohdo, who was immense- 
ly huge and powerful, spread terror through all the land. 
Before him trembled all the giants, both among the Bohe- 
mians and Franks. But Emma, the daughter of the king 
of the Riesen-gebirge, the Giant-mountains, would not 
yield to the suit which he urged. Neither strength nor 
cunning availed ; for she was in league with a powerful 
spirit. One day, Bohdo beheld his beloved hunting at a 
distance on the mountains. He saddled his courser, which 
sprang over the plains at the rate of a mile in a minute, 
and swore, by all the spirits of hell, to reach her this time, 
or perish. He rushed on, swift as the hawk flies, and had 
nearly overtaken her before she perceived that her enemy 
pursued her ; when, at the distance of two miles, she knew 
him by the gate of a plundered town which he bore as a 
shield. Then spurred she swiftly her horse ; and it flew 
from hill to hill, from rock to rock, over marshes, and 
through woods, till the trees of the forest cracked like 
stubble under its feet. Thus passed she over Thuringia, 
and came to the mountains of the Hartz. Often did she 
hear, some miles behind her, the snorting of Bohdo's 
steed, and goaded on her own courser to new exertions. 

At length it came panting to the brink of a frightful 
precipice. Emma looked down in horror, and her horse 
trembled : for the rock stood like a tower more than a 



380 BOHDO. 

thousand feet over the abyss below. From beneath was 
faintly heard the rushing of the stream in the valley, 
which here curled itself into a frightful whirlpool. Above 
it, on the opposite side, rose another shelf of rock, which 
seemed scarcely wide enough to receive the fore-foot of 
her steed. Awhile she stood, amazed and doubtful. Behind 
rushed the enemy, more hateful to her than death; before 
lay the abyss, which seemed yawning to her destruction. 
Again she heard the snorting of her pursuer's horse; and, 
in the terror of her heart, she cried to the spirits of her 
fathers for help, and, reckless, plunged her ell-long spurs 
into her courser's flank. 

And it sprang ! sprang over the abyss of a thousand 
feet, reached happily the rocky shelf, and drove its hoof 
deep into the hard stone, till the sparks of fire flew like 
lightning around. There is the footstep still! Time has 
not bated aught of its depth, and no rain shall wear away 
the track. Emma was saved ! but her royal crown of 
gold fell, during the leap, from her head, into the abyss 
below. Bohdo saw only his Emma, and thought not of 
the precipice : he sprang after her with his war-horse, and 
plunged into the whirlpool, which still bears his name. 
There, changed into a black hound, he watches the 
princess's crown, that no one may draw it from the gulf 

A diver was once induced, by large promises, to make 
the attempt. He plunged in, found the crown, and drew it 
up till the assembled crowd beheld the golden points. 
Twice the burden escaped from his hands; and the people 
cried to him to renew the attack. He did so, and a stream 
of blood tinged the pool ; but the diver came up no more. 

The wanderer passes through that vale with chilly 
horror; for clouds and darkness hang around it, and the 
stillness of death broods over the abyss. No bird wings its 
way over ; and in the dead of night the hollow bellowing 
of the heathen dog is often heard in the distance. 

New Monthly. 



THE HARP. 181 



THE HARP;— A TALE FROM THE GERMAN OF 
THE POET KORNER. 

The secretary Sellner had begun to taste the first spring 
of happiness with his youthful bride. Their union was 
not founded on that vague and evanescent passion which 
often lives and dies almost in the same moment. Sympathy 
and esteem formed the basis of their attachment. Time 
and experience, without diminishing the ardor, had con- 
firmed the permanence, of their mutual sentiments. It was 
long since they had discovered that they were formed for 
each other ; but want of fortune imposed the necessity of a 
tedious probation, till Sellner, by obtaining the patent for 
a place, found himself in possession of an easy competence, 
and, on the following Sunday, brought home, in triumph, 
his long-betrothed bride. A succession of ceremonious 
visits, for some weeks, engrossed many of those hours 
that the young couple would have devoted to each other. 
But no sooner was this onerous duty fulfilled, than they 
eagerly escaped from the intrusion of society to their deli- 
cious solitude ; and the fine summer evenings were but too 
short for plans and anticipations of future felicity. Sell- 
ner's flute and Josephine's harp filled up the intervals of 
conversation, and, with their harmonious unison, seemed 
to sound the prelude to many succeeding years of bliss, 
and concord. One evening, when Josephine had played 
longer than usual, she suddenly complained of headache : 
she had, in reality, risen with this symptom of indisposition, 
but concealed it from her anxious husband. Naturally 
susceptible of nervous complaints, the attention which she 
had lent to the music, and the emotions it excited in her 
delicate frame, had increased a slight indisposition to fever ; 
and she was now evidently ill. A physician was called 
16 



182 THE HARP. 

in, who so little anticipated danger, that he promised a 
cure on the morrow ; but, after a night spent in delirium, 
her disorder was pronounced a nervous fever, which com- 
pletely baffled the efforts of medical skill, and on the ninth 
day was confessedly mortal. Josephine herself was per- 
fectly sensible of her approaching dissolution, and with 
mild resignation submitted to her fate. 

Addressing her husband for the last time, she exclaim- 
ed, " My dear Edward, Heaven can witness it is with 
unutterable regret that I depart from this fair world, where 
I have found with thee a state of supreme felicity ; but 
though I am no longer permitted to live in those arms, 
doubt not thy faithful Josephine shall still hover round thee, 
and, as a guardian angel, encircle thee till we meet again." 
She had scarcely uttered these words when she sunk on 
her pillow, and soon fell into a slumber, from which she 
awoke no more; and when the clock was striking nine, it 
was observed that she had breathed her last. The agonies 
of Sellner may be more easily conceived than described : 
during some days, it appeared doubtful whether he would 
survive; and when, after a confinement of some weeks, he 
was at length permitted to leave his chamber, the powers 
of youth seemed paralyzed, his limbs were enfeebled, his 
frame emaciated, and he sunk into a state of stupor, from 
which he was only to be roused by the bitterness of grief. 
To this poignant anguish succeeded a fixed melancholy. 
A deep sorrow consecrated the memory of his beloved. 
Her apartment remained precisely in the state in which 
it had been left previous to her death. On the work- 
table lay her unfinished task ; the harp stood in its 
accustomed nook, untouched and silent. Every night Sell- 
ner went in a sort of pilgrimage to the sanctuary of his 
love, and, taking his flute, breathed forth, in deep, plain- 
tive tones, his fervent aspirations for the cherished shade. 
He was thus standing in Josephine's apartment, lost in 



THE HARP. 183 

thought, when a broad gleam of moonlight fell on the open 
window, and from the neitrhborinor tower the watchman 
proclaimed the ninth hour. At this moment, as if touched 
by some invisible spirit, the harp was heard to respond to 
his flute in perfect unison. Thunderstruck at this prodigy, 
Sellner suspended his flute, and the harp became silent. 
He then began, with deep emotion, Josephine's favorite 
air; when the harp resumed its melodious vibrations, thrill- 
ing with ecstasy. At this confirmation of his hopes, he 
sunk on the ground, no longer doubting the presence of 
the beloved spirit ; and whilst he opened his arms to clasp 
her to his breast, he seemed to drink in the breath of 
spring, and a pale, glimmering light flitted before his eyes. 
" I know thee, blessed spirit ! " exclaimed the bewildered 
Sellner ; " thou didst promise to hover round my steps, to 
encircle me with thy immortal love. Thou hast redeemed 
thy word : it is thy breath that glows on my lips : I feel my- 
self surrounded by thy presence." With rapturous emo- 
tion he snatched the flute, and the harp again responded ; 
but gradually its tones became softer, till the melodious 
murmurs ceased, and all again was silent. Sellner's feeble 
frame was completely disordered by these tumultuous emo- 
tions. When he threw himself on his bed, it was only to 
rave deliriously of the harp. After a sleepless night, he 
rose only to anticipate the renewal of his emotions. With 
unspeakable impatience he awaited the return of evening, 
when he again repaired to Josephine's apartment, where, 
as before, when the clock struck nine, the harp began to 
play in concert with the flute, and prolonged its melodious 
accompaniment till the tones gradually subsided to a faint 
and trem.ulous vibration ; and all again was silent. Ex- 
hausted by this second trial, it was with difficulty that 
Sellner tottered to his chamber, where the visible altera- 
tion in his appearance excited so much alarm, that the 
physician was again called in, who, with sorrow and dis- 



184 THE HARP. 

may, detected aggravated symptoms of the fever which 
had proved so fatal to Josephine ; and so rapid was its 
progress, that in two days the patient's fate appeared in- 
evitable. Sellner became more composed, and revealed to 
the physician the secret of his late mysterious communica- 
tions, avowing his belief that he should not survive the ap- 
proaching evening. No arguments could remove from 
his mind this fatal presage. As the day declined, it gained 
strength ; and he earnestly entreated, as a last request, to 
be conveyed to Josephine's apartment. The prayer was 
granted. Sellner no sooner reached the well-known spot, 
than he gazed with ineffable satisfaction on every object 
endeared by affectionate remembrance. 

The evening hour advanced. He dismissed his attend- 
ants, the physician alone remaining in the apartment. 
When the clock struck nine, Sellner's countenance was 
suddenly illumined ; the glow of hope and pleasure flushed 
his wan cheeks, and he passionately exclaimed, " Jo- 
sephine, greet me once more at parting, that I may over- 
come the pangs of death ! " At these words, the harp 
breathed forth a strain of jubilee ; a sudden gleam of light 
waved round the dying man, who, on beholding the sign, 
exclaimed, " I come ! I come to thee ! " and sunk senseless 
on the couch. It was in vain that the astonished physi- 
cian hastened to his assistance ; and he too late discovered 
that life had yielded in the conflict. It was long before 
he could bring himself to divulge the mysterious circum- 
stances which had preceded Sellner's dissolution; but 
once, in a moment of confidence, he was insensibly led to 
make the detail to a few intimate friends, and finally pro- 
duced the harp, which he had appropriated to himself as a 
legacy from the dead. 



THE soldier's WIFE. 185 



THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. 



It is now many years since the first battalion of the 
I7th regiment of foot, under orders to embark for In- 
dia, — that far distant land, where so many of our brave 
countrymen have fallen victims to the climate, and where 
so few have slept in what soldiers call the '' bed of glory," 
— were assembled in the barrack-yard of Chatham, to be 
inspected previously to their passing on board the trans- 
port which lay moored in the Downs. 

It was scarcely daybreak when the merry drum and 
fife were heard over all parts of the town, and the soldiers 
were seen sallying forth from their quarters, to join the 
ranks, with their bright firelocks on their shoulders, and 
the knapsacks and canteens fastened to their backs by 
belts as white as snow. Each soldier was accompanied 
by some friend or acquaintance, or by some individual 
with a dearer title to his regard than either ; and there 
was a strange and sometimes a whimsical mingling of 
weeping and laughing among the assembled groups. 

The second battalion was to remain in England ; and 
the greater portion of the division were present to bid 
farewell to their old companions in arms. But among the 
husbands and wives, uncertainty, as to their destiny, pre- 
vailed ; for the lots were yet to be drawn — the lots that 
were to decide which of the women should accompany the 
regiment, and which should remain behind. Ten of each 
company were to be taken, and chance was to be the only 
arbiter. Without noticing what passed elsewhere, I con- 
fined my attention to that company which was command- 
ed by my friend Captain Loder, a brave and excellent offi- 
cer, who, I am sure, has no more than myself forgotten 
the scene to which I refer. 

The women had gathered round the flaor-seroreant, who 
16* 



186 THE soldier's wiVe. 

held the lots in his cap — ten of them marked "To go' — 
and all the others containing the fatal words " To remain." 
It was a moment of dreadful suspense ; and never have 
I seen the extreme of anxiety so powerfully depicted 
in the countenances of human beings as in the features of 
each of the soldiers' wives who composed that group. 
One advanced, and drew her ticket ; it was against her, 
and she retreated sobbing. Another ; she succeeded, and, 
giving a loud huzza, ran off to the distant ranks to em- 
brace her husband. A third came forward with hesita- 
ting step : tears were already chasing each other down her 
cheeks, and there was an unnatural paleness on her in- 
teresting and youthful countenance. She put her small 
hand into the sergeant's cap, and I saw, by the rise and 
fall of her bosom, even more than her looks revealed. 
She unrolled the paper, looked upon it, and, with a deep 
groan, fell back, and fainted. So intense was the anxiety 
of every person present, that she remained unnoticed un- 
til all the tickets had been drawn, and the greater number 
of the women had left the spot. I then looked round, and 
beheld her supported by her husband, who was kneeling 
upon the ground, gazing upon her face, and drying her 
fast-falling tears with his coarse handkerchief, and now 
and then pressing it to his own manly cheek. 

Captain Loder advanced towards them. '* I am sorry, 
Henry Jenkins," said he, " that fate has been against you; 
but bear up, and be stout-hearted." 

" I am so, captain," said the soldier, as he looked up, 
and passed his rough hand across his face ; " but 'tis a 
hard thing to part from a wife, and she so soon to be a 
mother." 

*' Oh, captain," sobbed the young woman, " as you are 
both a husband and a father, do not take him from me ! I 
have no friend in the wide world but one, and you will let 
him bide with me ! Oh, take me with him — take me with 
him — for the love of God, take me with him, captain ! " 



187 

She fell on her knees, laid hold of the officer's sash, clasped 
it firmly between her hands, and looked up in his face, 
exclaiming, " Oh, leave me my only hope, at least till God 
has given me another ! " and repeated, in heart-rending 
accents, " Oh take me with him ! take me with him ! " 

The gallant officer was himself in tears. He knew that 
it was impossible to grant the poor wife's petition without 
creating much discontent in his company ; and he gazed 
upon them with that feeling with which a good man always 
regards the suffi3rings he cannot alleviate. At this mo- 
ment, a smart young soldier stepped forward, and stood be- 
fore the captain with his hand to his cap. 

'* And what do you want, my good fellow ? " said the 
officer. 

*' My name's John Carty, please yer honor ; and I belong 
to the second battalion." 

" And what do you want here 1 " 

'' Only, yer honor," said Carty, scratching his head, 
'* that poor man and his wife there are sorrow-hearted at 
parting, I'm thinking." 

" Well, and what then ? " 

" Why, yer honor, they say I'm a likely lad, and I know 
I'm fit for sarvice ; and if your honor would only let 
that poor fellow^ take my place in Captain Bond's company, 
and let me take his place in yours, why, yer honor w^ould 
make two poor things happy, and save the life of one of 
them, I'm thinking." 

Captain Loder considered for a few minutes, and, direct- 
ing the young Irishman to remain where he w^as, proceed- 
ed to his brother officer's quarters. He soon made ar- 
rangements for the exchange of the soldiers, and returned 
to the place where he had left them. 

'* Well, John Carty," said he, " you go to Bengal with 
me ; and you, Henry Jenkins, remain at home with your 
wife." 



188 THE soldier's wife. 

" Thank yer honor," said John Carty, again touching 
his cap as he walked off. 

Henry Jenkins and his wife both rose from the ground, 
and rushed into each other's arms. " God bless you, cap- 
tain ! " said the soldier as he pressed his wife closer to his 
bosom. " Oh, bless him forever ! " said the wife ; *' bless 
him with prosperity and a happy heart ! — bless his wife, 
and bless his children ! " — and she again fainted. 

The officer, wiping a tear from his eye, and exclaiming, 
" May you never want a friend when I am far from you — 
you, my good lad, and your amiable and loving wife ! " 
passed on to his company, while the happy couple went in 
search of John Carty. 

********* 

About twelve months since, as two boys were watching 
the sheep confided to their charge, upon a wide heath in 
the county of Somerset, their attention was attracted by a 
soldier, who walked along apparently with much fatigue, 
and at length stopped to rest his weary limbs beside the 
old finger-post, which at one time pointed out the way to 
the neighboring villages, but which now afforded no in- 
formation to the traveller ; for age had rendered it 
useless. 

The boys were gazing upon him with much curiosity, 
when he beckoned them towards him, and inquired the 
way to the village of Eldenby. 

The eldest, a fine, intelligent lad, of about twelve years 
of age, pointed to the path, and asked if he were going 
to any particular house in the village. 

" No, my little lad," said the soldier, " but it is on the 
high road to Frome, and I have friends there ; but, in truth, 
I am very wearied, and perhaps may find in yon village 
some person who will befriend a poor fellow, and look to 
God for a reward. 

" Sir," said the boy, '' my father was a soldier many years 



THE soldier's WIFE. 1S9 

ago, and he dearly loves to look upon a red coat. If you 
come with me, you may be sure of a welcome." 

*' And you can tell us stories about foreign parts," said 
the younger lad, a fine, chubby-cheeked fellow, who, with 
his watch-coat thrown carelessly over his shoulder, and 
his crook in his right hand, had been minutely examining 
every portion of the soldier's dress. 

The boys gave instructions to their intelligent dog, 
who, they said, would take good care of the sheep during 
their absence ; and in a few minutes the soldier and his 
young companions reached the gate of a flourishing farm- 
house, which had all the external tokens of prosperity and 
happiness. The younger boy trotted on a few paces before, 
to give his parents notice that they had invited a stranger to 
rest beneath their hospitable roof; and the soldier had 
just crossed the threshold of the door, when he was re- 
ceived by a joyful cry of recognition from his old friends 
Henry Jenkins and his wife ; and he was welcomed as a 
brother to the dwelling of those, who, in all human prob- 
ability, were indebted to him for their present enviable 
station. 

It is unnecessary to pursue this story further than to 
add, that John Carty spent his furlough at Eldenby farm ; 
and that, at the expiration of it, his discharge was pur- 
chased by his grateful friends. He is now living in their 
happy dwelling ; and his care and exertions have contrib- 
uted greatly to increase their prosperity. Nothing has 
been wrong with them since John Carty was their 
steward. 

'* Cast thy bread upon the waters," said the wise man, 
" and it shall be returned to thee after many days." 

S. C. Hall. 



190 THE LOST CHILD. 



THE LOST CHILD. 



Lucy was only six years old, but bold as a fairy ; she 
had gone by herself a thousand times about the braes,* and 
often upon errands to houses two or three miles distant. 
What had her parents to fear ? The footpaths were all 
firm, and led through no places of danger; nor are infants 
of themselves incautious, when alone in their pastimes. 
Lucy went singing into the coppice-woods, and singing 
she reappeared on the open hill-side. With her small 
white hand on the rail, she glided along the wooden 
bridge, or, lightly as the ousel,t tripped from stone to stone 
across the shallow streamlet. The creature would be 
away for hours, and no fears be felt on her account by any 
one at home — whether she had gone with her basket un- 
der her arm to borrow some articles of household use from 
a neighbor, or, merely for her own solitary delight, wander- 
ed off to the braes to play among the flowers, coming 
back laden with wreaths and garlands. With a bonnet 
of her own sewing, to shade her pretty face from the sun, 
and across her shoulders a plaid in which she could sit 
dry during an hour of the heaviest rain beneath the 
smallest beild,J Lucy passed many long hours in the day- 
light, and thus knew, without thinking of it, all the topog- 
raphy of that pastoral solitude, and even something of 
the changeful appearances in the air and sky. 

The happy child had been invited to pass a whole day, 
from morning to night, at Lady side (a farm-house about 
two miles off), with her playmates, the Maynes; and she 
left home about an hour after sunrise. She was dressed 
for a holiday, and father and mother, and aunt Isobel, all 
three kissed her sparkling face before she set off by her- 

* Rising grounds. t Blackbird. t Shelter. 




THE LOST CHILD. — Page 190. 



THE LOST CHILD. 191 

self, and stood listening to her singing, till her small voice 
was lost in the murmur of the rivulet. During her ab- 
sence, the house was silent but happy ; and, the evening 
being now far advanced, Lucy was expected home every 
minute, and Michael, Agnes, and Isobel, went to meet her 
on the way. They walked on and on, wondering a little, 
but in no degree alarmed, till they reached Ladyside, and 
heard the cheerful din of the imps within, still rioting at 
the close of the holiday. Jacob Mayne came to the 
door ; but, on their kindly asking v.'hy Lucy had not been 
sent home before daylight was over, he looked painfully 
surprised, and said that she had not been at Ladyside. 

Agnes suddenly sat down, without speaking one word, 
on the stone seat beside the door, and Michael, supporting 
her, said, " Jacob, our child left us this morning at six 
o'clock, and it is now near ten at night. God is merciful, 
but, perhaps, Lucy is dead." Jacob Mayne was an ordi- 
nary, common-place, and rather ignorant man ; but his 
heart leaped within him at these words, and, by this time, 
his own children were standing about the door. " Yes, 
Mr. Forrester, God is merciful ; and your daughter, let us 
trust, is not dead. Let us trust that she yet liveth ; and, 
without delay, let us go to seek the child." Michael trem- 
bled from head to foot, and his voice was gone : he lifted 
up his eyes to heaven, but it seemed not as if he saw 
either the moon or the stars. ''Run over to Raeshorn, 
some of you," said Jacob, "and tell what has happened. 
Do you, Isaac, my good boy, cross over to a' the towns on 
the Inverlethen-side, and — Oh ! Mr. Forrester — Mr. For- 
rester, dinna let this trial overcome you sae sairly " — for 
Michael was leaning against the wall of the house, and 
the strong man was helpless as a child. " Keep up your 
heart, my dearest son," said Isobel, with a voice all unlike 
her usual, " keep up your heart, for the blessed bairn is, 
beyond doubt, somewhere in the keeping of the great 
God, yea, without a hair of her head being hurt. A 



192 THE LOST CHILD. 

hundred things may have happened to her, and death not 
among the number. Oh ! no — no — surely not death — that 
would, indeed, be too dreadful a judgment." And aunt 
Isobel, oppressed by the power of that word, now needed 
the very comfort that she had in vain tried to bestow. 

Within two hours, a hundred people were traversing the 
hills in all directions, even to a distance which it seemed 
most unlikely that poor Lucy could have reached. The 
shepherds and their dogs, all night through, searched every 
nook — every stony and rocky place — every little shaw* — 
every piece of taller heather — every crevice that could 
conceal any thing alive or dead, — but no Lucy was there. 
Her mother, who, for a while, seemed inspired with super- 
natural strength, had joined in the search, and, with a 
quaking heart, looked into every brake, or stopped and 
listened to every shout and halloo reverberating among the 
hills, if she could seize on some tone of recognition or 
discovery. But the moon sank ; and then all the stars, 
whose increased brightness had for a short time supplied 
her place, all faded away: and then came the gray dawn 
of morning, and then the clear brightness of the day, and 
still Michael and Agnes were childless. '' She has sunk 
into some mossy or miry place," said Michael to a man 
near him, into whose face he never looked. " A cruel, 
cruel death for one like her! The earth on which my 
child walked has closed over her, and we shall never see 
her more ! " 

At last, a man, who had left the search and gone in a 
direction towards the high road, came running with some- 
thing in his arms towards the place where Michael and 
others were standing beside Agnes, who lay apparently 
exhausted almost to dying on the sward. He approached 
hesitatingly; and Michael saw that he carried Lucy's bon- 
net, clothes, and plaid. It was impossible not to see some 



A small wood in a hollow. 



THE LOST CHILD. 193 

spots of blood upon the frill that the child had worn round 
her neck. " Murdered — murdered," was the one word 
whispered or ejaculated all around ; but Agnes heard it 
not ; for, worn out by that long night of hope and despair, 
she had fallen asleep, and was perhaps seeking her lost 
Lucy in her dreams. 

Isobel took the clothes, and, narrowly inspecting thein 
with eye and hand, said, with a fervent voice that was heard 
even in Michael's despair, " No, Lucy is yet among the 
living. There are no marks of violence on the garments 
of the innocent — no murderer's hand has been here. 
These blood-spots have been put there to deceive. Be- 
sides, would not the murderer have carried off these 
things? For what else would he have murdered her? 
But oh ! foolish despair ! What speak I of ? For, wicked 
as this world is — ay, desperately wicked — there is not, on 
all the surface of the wide earth, a hand that would mur- 
der our child ! Is it not plain as the sun in heaven, that 
Lucy has been stolen by some wretched gipsy beggar, and 
that, before that sun has set, she will be saying her prayers 
in her father's house, with all of us upon our knees beside 
her, or with our faces prostrate upon the floor ? " 

Agnes opened her eyes, and beheld Lucy's bonnet and 
plaid lying close beside her, and then a silent crowd. Her 
senses all at once returned to her, and she rose up — "Ay, 
sure enough, drowned — drowned — drowned — but where 
have you laid her? Let me see our Lucy, Michael, for in 
my sleep I have already seen her laid out for burial." The 
crowd quietly dispersed, and horse and foot began to scour 
the country. Some took the high-roads, others all the by- 
paths, and many the trackless hills. Now that they were 
in some measure relieved from the horrible belief that the 
child was dead, the worst other calamity seemed nothing, 
for hope brought her back to their arms. Agnes had been 
able to walk to Bracken-Braes, and Michael and Isobel sat 
by her bed-side. Lucy's empty little crib was just as the 
17 



194 THE LOST CHILD. 

child had left it in the morning before, neatly made up 
with her own hands, and her small red Bible was lying on 
her pillow. 

" Oh ! my husband, this is being indeed kind to your 
Agnes, for much it must have cost you to stay here ; but 
had you left me, my silly heart must have ceased to beat 
altogether, for it will not lie still even now that I am well 
nigh resigned to the will of God." Michael put his hand 
on his wife's bosom, and felt her heart beating as if it were 
a knell. Then, ever and anon, the tears came gushing ; 
for all her strength was gone, and she lay at the mercy of 
the rustle of a leaf, or a shadow across the window ; and 
thus hour after hour passed on till it was again twilight. 

"I hear footsteps coming up the brae," said Agnes, who 
had for some time appeared to be slumbering ; and, in a 
few moments, the voice of Jacob Mayne was heard at the 
outer door. It was no time for ceremony, and he advan- 
ced into the room where the family had been during all 
that trying and endless day. Jacob wore a solemn ex- 
pression of countenance ; and he seemed, from his looks, 
to bring them no comfort. Michael stood up between 
him and his wife, and looked into his heart. Something 
there seemed to be in his face that was not miserable. " If 
he has heard nothing of my child," thought Michael, " this 
man must care but little for his own fireside." "Oh, speak, 
speak," said Agnes; "yet why need you speak? AH 
this has been but a vain belief, and Lucy is in heaven." 
" Something like a trace of her has been discovered — a 
woman, with a child, that did not look like a child of hers, 
was last night at Clovenford, and left it by the daw'ing." 
"Do you hear that, my beloved Agnes?" said Isobel; 
♦^ she'll have tramped away with Lucy up into Ettrick 
or Yarrow ; but hundreds of eyes will have been upon 
her; for these are quiet, but not solitary glens ; and the 
hunt will be over long before she has crossed down upon 
Hawick. I knew that country in my young days. What 
say ye, Mr. Mayne? There's the light o' hope on your 



THE LOST CHILD. 195 

face." " There's nae reason to doubt, ina'am, that it was 
Lucy. Every body is sure o't. If it was my ain Rachel, 
I should ha'e nae fear o' seeing her this blessed night." 

Jacob Mayne now took a chair, and sat down, with even 
a smile upon his countenance. '* I may tell you, noo, 
that Watty Oliver kens it was your bairn ; for he saw her 
limping after the limmer* at Galla-Brigg ; but ha'eing nae 
suspicion, he did na tak' a second leukt o' her — but ae 
leuk is sufficient, and he swears it was bonny Lucy For- 
rester." Aunt Isobel, by this time, had bread and cheese, 
and a bottle of her own elder-flower wine, on the table. 
" You have had a long and hard journey, wherever you 
have been, Mr. Mayne — tak' some refreshment," — and 
Michael asked a blessing. Jacob saw that he might now 
venture to reveal the whole truth. " No — no — Mrs. 
Irvine, I'm ower happy to eat or to drink. You are a' 
prepared for the blessing that awaits you — your bairn is 
no far aff — and I mysel' — for it was I mysel' that faund 
her — will bring her by the han', and restore her to her 
parents." Agnes had raised herself up in her bed at 
these words; but she sunk gently back on her pillow; 
aunt Isobel was rooted to her chair ; and Michael, as he 
rose up, felt as if the ground were sinking under his feet. 

There was a dead silence all around the house for a 
short space, and then the sound of many joyful voices, 
which again, by degrees, subsided. The eyes of all then 
looked, and yet feared to look, towards the door. Jacob 
Mayne was not so good as his word ; for he did not bring 
Lucy by the hand to restore her to her parents ; but, dress- 
ed again in her own bonnet, and her gown, and her own 
plaid, in rushed their child, by herself, with tears and 
sobs of joy, and her father laid her within her mother's 
bosom. 

John Wilson. 

* A vile woman. f A look. 



196 THE LYING SERVANT. 



THE LYING SERVANT. 



There lived in Suabia a certain lord, pious, just, and 
wise; to whose lot it fell to have a serving-man, a great 
rogue, and, above all, much addicted to the vice of lying. 
The name of the lord is not in the story ; therefore the 
reader need not trouble himself about it. 

The knave was given to boast of his wondrous travels. 
He had visited countries v/hich are no where to be found in 
the map, and seen things which mortal eyes never beheld. 
He would lie through the twenty-four hours of the clock; 
for he dreamed falsehoods in his sleep, to the truth of 
which he swore when he was awake. His lord was a cun- 
ning as well as a virtuous man, and used to see the lies in 
the varlet's mouth ; so that he was often caught — hung, as 
it were, in his own untruths, as in a trap. Nevertheless, 
he persisted still the more in his lies ; and when any one 
said, " How can that be?" he would answer, with fierce 
oaths and protestations, that so it was. He swore, stone 
and bone, and might the devil have his soul, and so forth ! 
Yet was the knave useful in the household ; quick and 
handy : therefore he was not disliked of his lord, though 
verily he was a great liar. 

It chanced, one pleasant day in spring, after the rains 
had fallen heavily, and swollen much the floods, that the 
lord and the knave rode out together ; and their way 
passed through a shady and silent forest. Suddenly 
appeared an old and well-grown fox: — "Look!" exclaim- 
ed the master of the knave ; " look ! what a huge beast! 
never before have I seen a renard so large ! " " Doth 
this beast surprise thee by its hugeness? " replieth straight 
the serving groom, casting his eye slightingly on the ani- 
mal, as he fled for fear, away into the cover of the brakes: 
" by stone and bone, I have been in a kingdom where the 



THE LYING SERVANT. 



197 



foxes are as big as are the hulls in this ! " Whereupon, 
hearing so vast a lie, the lord answered calmly, but with 
mockery in his heart, " In that kingdom there must be 
excellent lining for the cloaks, if furriers can there be 
found well to dress skins so large ! " 

And so they rode on ; the lord in silence ; but soon he 
began to sigh heavily. Still he seemed to wax more and 
more sad in spirit, and his sighs grew deeper and more 
quick. Then inquired the knave of the lord what sud- 
den affliction or cause of sorrow had happened. " Alas!" 
replied the wily master, "I trust in Heaven's goodness that 
neither of us two hath to-day, by any frowardness of for- 
tune, chanced to say the thing which is not; for assuredly 
he that hath so done must this day perish." The knave, 
on hearing these doleful words, and perceiving real sorrow 
to be depicted on the paleness of his master's countenance, 
instantly felt as if his ears grew more wide, that not a 
word, or syllable, of so strange a discovery might escape 
his troubled sense ; and so, with eager exclamations, he 
demanded of the lord to ease his suspense, and to explain 
why so cruel a doom was now about to fall upon compan- 
ionable liars. 

" Hear, then, dear knave," answered the lord to the 
earnestness of his servant ; " since thou must needs know, 
hearken ! and God grant that no trouble come to thee 
from what I shall say. To-day we ride far ; and in our 
course is a vast and heavy-rolling flood, of which the ford 
is narrow, and the pool is deep. To it hath Heaven given 
the power of sweeping down into its dark holes, all deal- 
ers in falsehoods, who may rashly venture to put them- 
selves within its truth-loving current ! But to him who 
hath told no lie there is no fear of this river. Spur we 
our horses, knave, for to-day our journey must be long 1 " 

Then the knave thought, " long indeed must the journey 
be for some who are now here;" and, as he spurred, he 
sighed heavier and deeper than his master had done be- 
17* 



198 THE LYING SERVANT. 

fore him, who now went gayly on ; nor ceased he to cry, 
" Spur we our horses, knave, for to-day our journey must 
be long ! " 

Then came they to a brook. Its waters were small and 
its channel such as a boy might leap across. Yet, never- 
theless, the knave began to tremble; and falteringly he 
asked, " Is this now the river where harmless liars must 
perish? " " This ! ah no," replied the lord : "this is but a 
brook — no liar need tremble here." Yet was the knave 
not wholly assured; and, stammering, he said, "My gra- 
cious lord, thy servant now bethinks him that he to-day 
hath made a fox too huge: that of which he spake was 
verily not so large as is an ox ; but, stone and hone, as big 
as is a good-sized roe ! " 

The lord replied, with wonder in his tone, " What of 
this fox concerneth me? If large or small, I care not. 
Spur we our horses, knave, for to-day our journey must 
be long! " 

"Long indeed," still thought the serving groom; and in 
sadness he crossed the brook. Then they came to a stream 
running quickly through a green meadow, the stones 
showing themselves in many places above its frothy water. 
The varlet started, and cried aloud, "Another river! 
surely of rivers there is to-day no end : was it of this thou 
talkedst heretofore ? " " No," replied the lord, " not of 
this; " and more he said not ; yet marked he, with inward 
gladness, his servant's fear. " Because, in good truth," 
rejoined the knave, " it is on my conscience to give thee 
note, that the fox of which I spake was not larger than a 
calf! " " Large or small, let me not be troubled with thy 
fox : the beast concerneth not me at all ! " 

As they quitted the woody country, they perceived a 
river in the way, which gave sign of having been swollen 
by the rains; and on it was a boat. " This, then, is the 
doom of liars," said the knave; and he looked earnestly 
towards the passage-craft. " Be informed, my good lord, 



THE LYING SERVANT. 199 

that renard was not larger than a fat wcdder-shecp ! " 
The lord seemed angry, and answered, " This is not yet 
the grave of falsehood : why torment me with this cursed 
fox ! Rather spur we our horses, for we have far to go. 
" Stone and hone,'' said the knave to himself, " the end 
of my journey approacheth ! " 

Now, the day declined, and the shadows of the travellers 
lengthened on the ground; but darker than the twilight 
was the sadness on the face of the knave. And, as the 
wind rustled the trees, he ever and anon turned pale, and 
inquired of his master, if the noise were of a torrent or 
stream of water. Still, as the evening fell, his eyes strove 
to discover the course of a winding river. But nothing 
of the sort could he discern, so that his spirits began to 
revive, and he was fain to join in discourse with the lord ; 
but the lord held his peace, and looked as one who expects 
an evil thing. 

Suddenly the way became steep, and they descended 
into a low and woody valley, in which was a broad and 
black river, creeping fearfully along, like the dark stream 
of Lethe, without bridge or bark to be seen near. " Alas, 
alas ! " cried the knave, and the anguish oozed from the 
pores of his pale face. " Ah miserable me ! this, then, is 
the river in which liars must perish ! " " Even so," said 
the lord : " this is the stream of which I spake : but the 
ford is sound and good for true men. Spur we our 
horses, knave, for night approacheth, and we have yet 
far to go." 

" My life is dear to me," said the trembling serving- 
man; "and thou knowest that, were it lost, my icife would 
be disconsolate. In sincerity, then, I declare, that the 
fox, which I saw in the distant country, Vv^as not larger 
than he icho jled from us in the ivood this morning .'" 

Then laughed the lord aloud, and said, "Ho, knave! 
wast thou afraid of thy life, and will nothing cure thy 
lying ? Is not falsehood, which kills the soul, worse than 
death, which has mastery only over the body ? This river 



200 RENSTERN. 

is no more than any other ; nor hath it a power such as I 
feigned. The ford is safe, and the waters gentle as those 
we have already passed. But who shall pass thee over the 
shame of this day? In it thou must needs sink, unless 
penitence come to help thee over, and cause thee to look 
back on the gulf of thy lies, as on a danger from which 
thou hast been delivered by Heaven's grace." And, as he 
railed against his servant, the lord rode on into the water, 
and both in safety reached the opposite shore. Then 
vowed the knave, by stone and hone, that from that time 
forward he would duly measure his words — and glad was 
he so to escape. Such is the story of the lying servant 
and the merry lord — by which let the reader profit. 

London Magazine. 



RENSTERN. 



Renstern was born to the inheritance of all the lands 
of Frankenthall. They extend from Ranstadt, in Bavaria, 
as far as Eindort ; and he who could walk round them 
from morning to his evening meal, would earn it well. 
Renstern was of an inquiring mind, more given to his 
studies than to his pleasures; for, though his father left 
him in unrestricted possession at eighteen, he was rarely 
a partaker in those amusements and pursuits which his 
youth might have been supposed to incite him to, and which 
his fortune would have enabled him to follow. Renstern, 
though a philosopher, was not indifferent to the charms 
of woman. Philosophy, indeed, generally gave way in 
the beginning ; but in the end it was sure to regain its 
ascendency. A fearful inroad, however, was made upon 
his studies by the charms of Ermance Rosenheim, just 
growing into woman, the daughter of the Baron Rosen- 
heim, a Bavarian. There may, perhaps, have been love- 
lier girls than Ermance Rosenheim, but never one more 



REN STERN. 201 

gentle and innocent. She had that, too, which beauty 
sometimes wants, — that perfect charm of youth and fresh- 
ness, which seems as if sorrow never could shadow it. 
Her smile was like the day>break on an Italian landscape, 
and the melody of her voice seemed an emanation from 
the harmony of her soul. Often would Renstern sit down 
to his metaphysics in the castle of Frankenthall, and re- 
main absorbed in study, till, suddenly, the image of Er- 
mance presenting itself, he would close his books, order 
his horse, and gallop over to Eindort, to press a silky hand, 
and admire fair tresses. Do not imagine, that, because 
Renstern was a philosopher, he knew not how to woo, 
Renstern could say as gallant things as any man in Bava- 
ria ; but it was not gallantry he spoke to Ermance. He 
had an easy task ; for he was sincere, and Ermance 
smiled upon him. It was often late when Renstern re- 
turned to Frankenthall ; but, finding his books lying as if 
waiting to be read, he would relight his lamp, and plunge 
into metaphysics again ; and morning would often surprise 
him at his studies. But this could not last. Renstern mar- 
ried Ermance on his twenty-first birth-day; she was seven- 
teen ; and for more than a year he forgot, in her arms, all his 
metaphysics and theology. But the dominant passion of 
the human mind will continue to be dominant. Love is 
only an episode in a man's life ; it cannot occupy his ex- 
istence. The other sex give up all to the affections, and 
many of them can live forever upon their exercise; but 
they are always deceived. Gentle, kind, affectionate wo- 
man ! we are too hard-hearted to be your mates : it is true 
we can love ardently ; but it is you alone who know to love 
constantly. Renstern was again often among his books ; 
and Ermance wondered that he was so oflen absent from 
her, and so silent when with her. Renstern still loved 
Ermance : he mingled in no amusement in which she 
was not a partaker, nor could he have found any pleasure 
where she did not share it. He thought he loved her as 



202 RENSTERN. 

much as on the day when he led her from the altar in 
maiden bashfulness and beauty ; and if his affection had 
depended upon her charms and her bashfulness, he would 
have been right ; for Ermance was as lovely and as bash- 
ful as ever. But Renstern deceived himself Ermance 
could no longer satisfy his existence. Ermance was no 
metaphysician ; he could not talk to her of first causes and 
future contingents. The marriage state gives rise to many 
subjects of conversation less elevated than that which pre- 
cedes it ; and it is not wonderful that Renstern should 
often be silent and thoughtful in her company, since do- 
mestic affairs, or even tenderer topics, would cut but a 
sorry figure in the mind of a man who had just been trav- 
elling in the immensity of time and space, and whose 
mind was occupied with eternal existences, and the na- 
ture of a Supreme Intelligence. 

Renstern betrayed, indeed, no want of affection, except- 
ing that Ermance had little of his company : his time was 
divided betwixt study and reverie. Poor Ermance! she 
was often given up to reverie too ; for often did she think 
of the first months that succeeded her marriage, and often 
did she recall the words of Renstern, that he had attain- 
ed the summit of happiness in possessing her. Alas ! he 
spoke too truly : — happiness cannot continue at one 
elevation. 

Six months had passed away. One evening, said Ren- 
stern to Ermance, " Ermance, there is no reason why we 
should not live as our fortune and rank entitle us to do. 
We must enjoy life, my love." " Do we not. Otto ? " re- 
|,lied she. *' How would you that we should live?" "I 
would carry you to Vienna," replied he ; "I would intro- 
duce you at court; I would show you the world." Er- 
mance did not see that living in greater splendor, or being 
introduced at the court of Vienna, would add to her en- 
joyment. Her happiest days had been spent at Franken- 
thall ; and if Renstern would be again the Renstern he 



RENSTERN. 203 

had once been, she could be as happy as ever. The rec- 
ollection of those days, however, led her to indulge an 
undefined hope, that perhaps a change of scene might 
produce good. Besides, Ermance was too affectionate to 
oppose any thing which Renstern might desire, whatever 
might be her own wishes. She immediately, therefore, 
expressed her willingness to go to Vienna. Their journey 
might be called a happy one. Renstern was himself again, 
and with Ermance former days were renewed. Renstern 
had an end in view, and all was novelty to Ermance. 
She was astonished, pleased, and affrighted, by turns; 
she felt all that exhilaration of spirit, and infantine enjoy- 
ment, in crossing the boundaries of another kingdom, 
which every young person experiences, when it is the first 
time it has happened. There is no circumstance in life 
which draws closer the affections than travelling. In 
every thing that occurs, there is a certain degree of com- 
mon sympathy; and numerous occasions arise in which 
the protector must show an interest in the protected 
There was nothing to distract Renstern's mind; and the 
simplicity, and astonishment, and happiness, of Ermance 
pleased and occupied him. Never had she appeared more 
charming either. The excitation had restored for a season 
that tint to her cheek which reminded him of Eindort; 
and one of the chains which had originally bound Ren- 
stern was beauty. Let no one speak lightly of the charm 
of beauty : it is fragile, indeed ; and what is not ? Are 
health and youth more durable ? and do we despise them 1 
Is the painted flower we gaze upon less perishable ? 
Beauty may be, perchance, a fatal dowry, and, at rare times, 
it may interpret falsely, like the Pontine marshes, which 
are covered with verdure and flowers ; but how beautiful- 
ly is an angelic soul reflected in celestial features ! 

Behold the Baron Renstern of Frankenthall, and the 
fair Ermance, at the court of Vienna. The manners of 
Vienna are not those of Ranstadt. There, as in every 



204 RENSTERN. 

Other capital city, innocence and simplicity are despised ; 
vice and virtue are judged by the changing verdict of 
fashion, in place of the eternal tribunal of truth, and 
things can no longer be recognized by their names. Er- 
mance found herself singular in her opinions, and for 
their correctness she appealed to Renstern ; but Renstern 
saw no distinction betwixt vice and virtue. 

Six months of Vienna ruined Renstern. No one in 
Vienna gave such magnificent entertainments; no one 
was more distinguished for the splendor of his equipages. 
These, however, his fortune could have supported ; but he 
gave magnificent presents to his favorites, gambled, and 
was ruined. During this period, what were the feelings 
and occupations of Ermance 1 Alas ! sadness had begun 
to grow to her heart, and had already overcast her brow. 
Her charms were more touching than ever, though the 
light of her beauty was gone, like the charm of a southern 
night, whose beauty testifies to the splendors of the day 
which preceded it. She had mingled in gayety without 
relish, and in society she had found no friend. The 
flattery she met with disgusted her, and the court that 
was paid to her fatigued her. She had seen her husband 
play deep, and she feared that he played deeper when she 
saw him not. Of his intrigues she knew nothing, and 
suspected nothing. She was too innocent to suppose it 
possible that her husband would forget his vows, and 
plight his faith to others ; but she saw that he too often 
preferred to hers the society of others ; and she wished 
that she possessed their charms, or that she had never 
left Frankenthall. " Ermance," said Renstern to her, one 
morning, "we must leave Vienna." Ermance was de- 
lighted to hear the intelligence. " I have no desire to 
remain in Vienna," replied she; "I love Frankenthall bet- 
ter." " But we shall not go to Frankenthall," said he ; 
" Frankenthall is no longer mine." The truth flashed upon 
Ermance ; but her looks expressed affection and resigna- 



RENSTERN. 205 

tion, not reproach. Renstern was, for a moment, touch- 
ed by her charms and her goodness, and fondly took her 
hand, and called her his dear Ermance, and embraced 
her. It is strange how mysteriously pain and pleasure 
are sometimes mingled. In the moment of learning her 
ruin, Ermance tasted a moment of perfect happiness ; 
and Renstern, in communicating it, forgot, in that mo- 
ment, that he was ruined. There is a certain point at 
which the human mind gathers strength from its calamity : 
it grasps, as with giant strength, the very shaft that pierces ; 
and, in the consciousness of its power, rises for a time 
above humanity, and consequently above that calamity 
which is human. But Renstern had told the truth : — the 
lands of Frankenthall had passed into other hands. 
Renstern, however, like all gamblers, thought it possible 
that his fortune might be regained, and therefore made it 
a condition of the sale, that he should have a power of 
redeeming his possessions within one year. 

In a few days after this communication, Renstern and 
Ermance left Vienna, and retired to the village of Holt in 
Swabia, in the neighborhood of which his uncle resided, 
who had offered Renstern a house upon his property. 
The Comte Font-barre was a man of immense fortune, of 
retired habits, and of a philosophical turn of mind ; he 
had been long a widower, and his only son had, a few 
years before, married, contrary to his father's wish, and 
gone abroad under his displeasure ; but Font-barre often 
talked of forgiving him, and of recalling him to cheer 
the evening of his days. It was impossible that Ren- 
stern's uncle should not disapprove of the conduct which 
had brought his nephew to ruin ; but he felt so much in- 
terest in Ermance, that he would not wound her feelings 
by looking cold upon her husband ; and it may be, also, 
that he was too happy to have a philosophical compan- 
ion, to dwell much upon the cause which brought about the 
event, 

18 



206 RENSTERN. 

For some time after Renstern arrived at Holt, he was 
silent and gloomy, seeming to enjoy nothing, and to ex- 
ist without interest. He had joined in pleasures whose 
enjoyment is a fever, but which leaves an apathy and a 
void more insupportable than the agonies which attend 
it ; and he had tasted of unholy joys, which' had left the 
memory of their intoxication. Renstern, in the village 
of Holt, was differently regarded by the world from Ren- 
stern in the castle of Frankenthall ; and he knew not that 
the world's homage was sweet, until it was refused to him. 
One pang, the severest pang of all, his principles spared 
him — the consciousness that his misfortunes were the 
fruit of his own misconduct. He laid them at the door 
of destiny ; but he had forgotten to acquire that philoso- 
phy, the most important of all, which teaches man to ac- 
commodate himself to the lot which that destiny shall point 
out. Suddenly a change was visible in the manners of 
Renstern : he was often more cheerful than he was ever 
remembered to have been. He was still sometimes 
thoughtful, but he was no longer gloomy or morose ; and 
at times there was a playfulness in his manner which re- 
minded Ermance of happier days. It would have required 
a deeper discerner of human character than Ermance, to 
have discovered that it was like an occasional ripple upon 
deep water, which hinders its profundity from being seen. 
She was rejoiced at the change ; she had more of Ren- 
stern's company than she had had since the first year of 
their marriage ; and though she was somewhat surprised 
at its suddenness, it was not the less agreeable on that ac- 
count ; and she fondly flattered herself that former times 
were about to be renewed. She could not, however, help 
remarking one circumstance as somewhat extraordinary : 
it was, that, when Renstern was with his uncle, his gayety 
was unbounded, and even unnatural to his character ; but 
that before, and after his visit, he was always thought- 
ful, gloomy, and absent. The circumstance would have 



RENSTERN. 207 

remained unnoticed by Ermance, had it not been that 
these occasional reminiscences of former days were pain- 
ful to her. They were all that she had now to complain 
of; and, as her husband's change of manner had restored 
her to almost all her former familiarity, she determined to 
ask the reason. *' Otto," said Ermance, one morning, ex- 
tending to him, in sweet confidence, her fair hand, ** how I 
rejoice to see your spirits so much improved ! " She paus- 
ed a moment, and then timidly added, '' There is now 
only one occasion on which you are gloomy." " What is 
that, my love ? " demanded Renstern. '* Before and after 
visiting your uncle; and you are always so gay when with 
him." Before Ermance had finished the sentence, Ren- 
stern had risen, and walked across the room ; but he im- 
mediately returned, and said, "I am not aware, Ermance, 
of my being either gay or sad on these occasions ; but is it 
not natural to be gay when with our friends, and sorry 
when we leave them ? " Ermance asked no further expla- 
nation, and hardly thought more of it. It passed rapidly 
across her mind, indeed, that one ought not to be sad he- 
fore visiting one's friends, and that quitting those whom 
we are to see next day is hardly a cause for sadness ; but 
the thought passed away. 

About the commencement of Renstern's change of 
manner, a circumstance occurred which it is necessary 
to notice. One evening, when Renstern and Ermance 
were with Font-barre, he addressed his nephew thus : — 
"Renstern," said he, "I feel that I can forgive my son ; 
but the overture must come from him. Do you write to 
your cousin, and say you have reason to think, that, if he 
would ask his father's pardon, it would be granted." 
Renstern promised ; and often since, the good man had 
expressed his disappointment, that there was yet no an- 
swer from his son. 

It was now ten months since Renstern had left Vienna. 
He had gone to Ulm on account of some little affair, and 



208 RENSTERN. 

returned upon the day which he and Ermance were in the 
weekly habit of passing with Font-barre. " Ermance,'' 
said he, "I have some business to talk over with my un- 
cle to-day ; and I have brought you some baubles from 
Ulm, to amuse you during my absence." Renstern re- 
turned late from his uncle's, and found Ermance reading 
her prayers. Next morning Font-barre was no more. An 
early summons informed Renstern of his loss. Being the 
nearest relation on the spot, he acted as executor ; and a 
will was discovered, by which Font-barre's son was disin- 
herited, and Renstern made heir to his uncle's wealth. 
Ermance trusted that her lord would be generous to his 
cousin — she was sure he would ; but is it to be wondered 
at, that she was pleased at an event which restored her 
husband to the rank which she thought him so worthy to 
hold? 

The year was about to expire, within which Renstern 
had the power to redeem his lands. The gold was told 
out, and Renstern was again Lord of Frankenthall. 

Do you hear how merrily the bells of Ranstadt are ring- 
ing ? Children strew flowers on the streets ; and the 
sound of welcome and rejoicing fills the air, as the mag- 
nificent equipage drives under the Munich gate. Six 
horsemen, upon richly-caparisoned Hungarians, ride be- 
fore, blowing silver trumpets ; six horses, in magnificent 
trappings, lead rapidly on the chariot, where sit the Baron 
of Frankenthall and the fair Ermance ; and twelve of the 
chief vassals, upon prancing steeds, bring up the rear, 
arrayed in the colors of the house, and bearing its trophies. 
Sweetly did Ermance smile, and kiss her hand to the peo- 
ple who adored her, as she passed along the streets ; and 
often did the baron bow in affable dignity. 

It was a beautiful May day : the sun looked out joyfully, 
and the gayety of external nature seemed to invite happi- 
ness to harmonize with it. Never had the abode of Ren- 
stern looked more lovely. The trees were covered with 



RENSTERN. 209 

leaves and blossoms ; the earth was full of flowers, the 
last of the spring and the first-born of summer; the 
perfumes of the hawthorn and the violet mingled together, 
and made harmony of sweet smells, as the birds made 
harmony of sounds. Ermance was happy. 

There was a great feast that day at Frankenthall : all 
Ranstadt and Eindort were invited to partake of it, and 
many nobles came from far to renew their friendship with 
its possessor. The feast was loud and joyous, and, long 
after the vassals had retired, the hall resounded with the 
mirth of the nobles ; but at length it was past, and all 
was silent, and Renstern walked forth to taste the cool of 
the night air. He looked down upon Ranstadt and Ein- 
dort : the fires yet blazed on the neighboring heights; the 
illuminations were not quite extinct, and the sound of 
distant mirth occasionally broke upon the silence. Around 
and above all was calm and still. 

It had been intended that Renstern and Ermance 
should remain a short time at Frankenthall, and then re- 
pair to Vienna. Sad as were Ermance's associations 
with Vienna, she looked forward to the time with eager- 
ness and joy ; for, alas ! she was miserable at Frankenthall. 
Renstern was hardly ever with her, and his presence 
brought no comfort with it. All day long he would walk 
or ride over the country ; and it was only when day closed 
that he returned to Frankenthall. When Ermance spoke 
to him, he seemed hardly to he^r her : he was in a state 
of constant restlessness : the least noise seemed to alarm 
him ; and if at night a knock was heard at the gate, he 
would start from his chair. He invited the neighboring 
gentry to the castle : but they liked not the visit, and sel- 
dom came. Renstern, they said, was changed ; he seemed 
absent and uncourtly, and looked upon his guests suspi- 
ciously. Sometimes he would drink deep, Ermance the 
only witness; and then he would laugh loud, and speak 
of the pleasures of Vienna, and call her his sweet mistress, 
18* 



210 RENSTERN. 

and declare that life must be enjoyed. Remorse is like a 
cancer; it eats life away: — the mind becomes a volcano; 
the flame may burn low ; but the fire lives on ; and, be- 
neath an outward calmness, there is a hell. 

All was mystery to Ermance ; but she was miserable. 
How changed were her smiles ! They came, like unlook- 
ed-for strangers, to those lips, where, in former days, they 
lay enamored, like the golden clouds that worship around 
the sun. They came suddenly, as if to keep tears down 
in the fountain of sorrow ; they were like sun-beams fall- 
ing upon thick mists, or like the lamps which illumine a 
sepulchre. Often would her tears choke the utterance of 
her prayers ; and then she would raise her streaming eyes 
to heaven, and think of the goodness of God, and the 
misery of her husband ; that misery which, though hidden 
from her, was no mystery to the Eternal. Often would 
she wander slowly among the beautiful environs of the 
castle, to try if the beauty and calmness of nature would 
communicate tranquillity to her soul. Alas ! the charm 
of nature can soothe that sorrow alone whose pangs would 
yield to time ; but the sorrows which are mingled with un- 
certainty the calmness of nature cannot still. Sometimes 
she was on the point of telling her misery to Renstern, 
of throwing herself into his arms, and asking leave to 
console him ; but his looks were forbidding, and she 
feared to learn evil. At last the misery of uncertainty 
triumphed over her difiidence and her fears. " Otto," 
said she, fearfully, and with a trembling voice, " when we 
drove through Ranstadt, I thought we should be happy at 
Frankenthall." Renstern made no reply ; but she could 
no longer hide her wretchedness and her tears : she threw 
herself upon her husband's neck and sobbed bitterly. 
Renstern did not repulse her. " Ermance," said he, "my 
kind one, I shall be less gloomy to-rnorrow, and then you 
will be happier." The morrow came, and Ermance per- 
ceived a change in his manner : he remained at Franken- 



RENSTERN. 211 

thall all day, and spoke more, and looked with more kind- 
ness upon her, than she had remembered for a long time. 

It was the evening, and they were sitting together, and 
alone ; a bright fire blazed on the hearth, and Ermance 
felt that a ray of hope and happiness had entered her 
heart. " Ermance," said Renstern to her, " I will tell 
you a story. There was once a Silesian ; and this Silesian 
was an atheist. You know, Ermance, what an atheist 
is? " " Yes," replied she, " but I do not wish to hear a 
story about atheists." " This Silesian," continued he, 
"inherited great possessions ; but they passed from him, 
no matter how. The Silesian had a rich relative, who 
had an only son ; but the son was in a foreign land ; and 
what do you think the Silesian did ? " "I know not," 
said Ermance. " Nay, but guess," said he ; " the sequel 
is the best of it." " Indeed I cannot; but look less wild- 
ly, Otto." " He forged a will in his own favor, and poi- 
soned his uncle." " His uncle, did you say ? " interrupt- 
ed Ermance. " I know not," continued he ; " his rela- 
tive ; but it matters not : the Silesian recovered his lands, 
and he thought he should then enjoy himself" " Enjoy 
himself!" interrupted Ermance; "how could a murderer 
hope to enjoy himself? " " But I have told you," contin- 
ued Renstern, " that the Silesian was an atheist. He 
knew that the deed could not be discovered in this world ; 
and as he did not believe in any other, he thought he had 
nothing to fear." " He had his conscience to fear," said 
Ermance. " I know not," continued Renstern; " but the 
Silesian was deceived. He became the slave of fear, and 
he knew not of what, but yet he was miserable. He was 
afraid to look around him, lest he should see his uncle; 
but his fear was foolish, for he knew his uncle could not 
rise from his grave. He heard forever a silent talking in 
the air — a horrid silence, which was not silence. The, 
most common things became, in his eyes, objects of ter- 
ror ; even the implements of household use took, in his 



212 A VINDICATION OF AUTHORS 

imagination, shapes of hideous deformity, which he dared 
not look upon. The least noise would alarm him." 

Ermance trembled : the traits of resemblance had pro- 
duced no suspicion ; still the resemblance affrighted her, 
and an undefined horror thrilled through her. " Renstern, 
Otto," said she, " finish this dreadful tale." " Presently," 
continued he : " the Silesian dreaded his sleeping hours the 
most ; and he tried to keep himself awake. His dreams ! 
but they were too dreadful to tell you. He thought of re- 
questing his wife to awake him when he slept." " Alas! 
he had a wife then ? " said Ermance. " He had," con- 
tinued Renstern ; but she knew nothing of his deeds un- 
til the day when he poisoned himself" " Alas ! his poor 
wife ! " said Ermance. *' The Silesian found existence 
insupportable ; and he knew that death would terminate 
his misery. It might be in the evening about this time, 
that the Silesian entered the room where his wife was, 
after he had drunk poison, and he said he would tell her 

the story of a Bavarian, who " Renstern stopped — 

death was upon his cheek — his eyes closed. " God of 
mercy ! " cried Ermance ; and she sprung to him. But 
death kept his prey. He was buried at the old church- 
yard of Ranstadt ; and Ermance lived a life of sorrow, 
loved and lamented by all, and said daily masses for the 
soul of Renstern. 

Tales of Ardennes. 



A VINDICATION OF AUTHORS AGAINST THE VUL- 
GAR CHARGE OF POVERTY. 

It is not very difficult to see from what arose the vulgar 
opinion of the poverty of authors. Bad authors have been 



FROM THE VULGAR CHARGE OF POVERTY. 213 

always poor — as it is quite fair that they should be ; upon 
the same principle that bad painters, or bad architects, or 
bad boot-makers, or bad carpenters, or bad any things, 
have been and always must be poor; for the rule applies 
equally to tables and tragedies, sermons and shoes. Bad 
writers have always existed in a much greater number than 
good; and, their works being most deservedly neglected, 
or as deservedly ridiculed, they complained very loudly 
and very absurdly: they were unfit for writing; therefore 
they refused to turn bricklayers : they lived in poverty, 
and died in want, because they persisted in writing books 
which nobody would read ; and the worse writers they 
were, the more, of course, they cried out about the injus- 
tice with which they were treated, and the poverty to 
which they were condemned. Mr. D'Israeli has compos- 
ed two corpulent volumes about their "Calamities," to 
which we shall presently recur ; and the history must be 
allowed to be sufficiently melancholy, though any reader 
of that diligent compiler's " Calamities of Authors " can- 
not fail to be convinced, that all the miseries of all these 
gentlemen arose from their having mistaken their vocal ion 
— that they were either utterly bad writers, or prodigal 
persons, who would have ruined themselves under any 
circumstances ; and that a history of the calamities of in- 
capable tailors, or inept shoe-makers, may be made up by 
some one belonging to these classes of operatives, which 
shall contain as pathetic pictures of the public neglect, or 
condemnation of their works, as Mr. D'Israeli has assem- 
bled in his collection of calamities. 

The wits and satirists of the age in which these bad 
writers lived (for their misery, like their existence, was 
always forgotten in the next) found their poverty an excel- 
lent subject for mirth and ridicule; and, extending it to 
the whole tribe of authors, they consecrated to their use 
forever 

" Want, the garret, and the jail." 



214 A VINDICATION OF AUTHORS 

To say nothing of the Greeks, Horace, Martial, Chau- 
cer, Ariosto, Cervantes, Spenser, Shakspeare, Butler, 
Milton, Moliere, Dryden, Boileau, Prior, Swift, Congreve, 
Addison, Le Sage, Pope, Gay, Arbuthnot, Voltaire, John- 
son, Fielding, Smollett, Rousseau, — comic writers, poets, 
epigrammatists, satirists, novelists, wits, — all have joined 
in representing authors as poor, for the sake of the jests 
that have since set many a table in a roar. But let our 
readers recur to our list, and they will see that the names 
of those who have thus held up authors to ridicule are the 
most successful whom the Muse has " admitted of her 
crew ; " that they are among the most eminent names in 
ancient and modern literature ; that they all lived in com- 
fort, and some even in opulence ; that those who were not 
rich, were poor from causes totally independent of their 
literary vocation : — and let it be remembered that no com- 
plaint has ever been made, in prose or rhyme, by any au- 
thor, of the general poverty of his tribe, except for the 
sake of pointing a jest, or heightening a picture. 

We might easily be long and dull upon the theme, but 
we refrain. We have said enough to introduce our proofs 
of the comfort or affluence in which authors have lived 
since the earliest days of authorship; and we beg here to 
premise, that we shall consider the profits arising to au- 
thors from places or pensions obtained on account of their 
works, as the legitimate profits of their writings. 

We trust our readers will excuse us for omitting all in- 
vestigation into the private circumstances of Hermes 
Trismegistus, the inventor of the Egyptian Statutes at 
Large ; of Cadmus, the inventor of the Greek letters, and 
consequently the cause of the introduction of birch into 
English schools; of Amphion, Orpheus, and other great 
poets of those days; and even of Zoroaster, the hero of 
many a novel, and some pantomimes. We say, we trust 
our readers will pardon us for omitting all notice of these 
gentlemen, seeing that we write this article in a country 



FROM THE VULGAR CHARGE OF POVERTY. 215 

town ill France, where we have access to few books of 
any kind, and to none at all regarding their works or auto- 
biography. The most fastidious admirer of antiquity, we 
are persuaded, will be satisfied with such a respectable age 
as that of Hesiod and Homer, which carries us back ten 
centuries before the birth of Christ ; and, in taking this 
for our point of starting, we think we may fairly be allow- 
ed to have complied with the judicious advice given by 
the Giant Moulineau to Count Hamilton's historiographi- 
cal ram, to " begin with the beginning." 

The father of Hesiod, it is quite clear, left behind him 
an estate : this was to have been divided between the poet 
and his brother Perses : the latter corrupted the judges, 
and defrauded him ; yet, notwithstanding this, he tells us 
in various passages of his poems, that he was not only 
above want, but capable of assisting others. The name 
of Homer has passed into a proverb of poverty ; yet Thes- 
torides made a vast fortune by reciting the poems of Ho- 
mer as his own. Homer was indeed a mendicant for 
some time ; but this was only while he was regarded as an 
impostor, pretending to be the author of poems which he 
did not compose. His subsequent effusions, however, dis- 
closed the true author of the Iliad ; and he died in happi- 
ness, affluence, and honor. 

Passing over the intervening centuries, in which no very 
eminent names of authors appear, we arrive at the fifth 
and sixth B. C. Anacreon, according to Madame Dacier, 
was related to Solon, and was consequently allied to the 
Codridae, the noblest family in Athens. Few events of 
his life are known ; but this fact is enough to prove that he 
could not, at all events, have been poor. We know, how- 
ever, that he was the friend of kings — of Polycrates and 
Hipparchus : it is pretty clear from his poems, that he 
lived in luxury, which poor authors seldom do ; and his 
death was caused by swallowing a grape-stone in drinking 
some new wine. Pindar was not noble, like Anacreon; 



216 A VINDICATION OF AUTHORS 

he was even of low origin ; but this did not prevent him 
from being courted by princes, and honored like a deity 
in his lifetime. Even the priestess of Delphi ordained him 
a share of the offerings to the god : statues were erected in 
honor of him, during his life, by his patron Hiero of Syra- 
cuse ; and he died in a public theatre, which would seem 
to argue that his life was not particularly unhappy. The 
brother of iEschylus commanded a squadron of ships at the 
battle of Salamis; the poet himself was largely patronized 
by Iliero of Syracuse ; his funeral was splendid, and plays 
were performed at his tomb in honor of his memory. Of 
the condition of Sophocles, little is known ; but he must 
have been left in easy circumstances by his father, since 
the latter, according to Athenseus, was rich enough to af- 
ford the vast expense of educating his son in all the polite 
accomplishments of his polite country : he was taught music 
and dancing by Lampros, and poetry by ^^Eschylus. He 
filled some of the highest offices in the state ; and Strabo 
mentions him as accompanying Pericles in his expedition 
to conquer the rebel Samians. Herodotus certainly had 
the means of travelling during a great portion of his life ; 
and he must have been no inconsiderable person, since 
his influence contributed mainly to the expulsion of the 
tyrant Lygdamis. Euripides was of noble descent, and 
prime minister to Archelaus of Macedon. Thucydides 
was of the royal blood of the Thracian kings; he had a 
high command in the army, and joined to his own afflu- 
ence many rich mines of gold, which he acquired by 
marriage. Plato was descended on the paternal side from 
Codrus, on the maternal from Solon ; and though it does 
not appear that he was very wealthy, it is certain that he 
lived delightfully in the elegant retreat purchased with his 
own drachmas — 

" The olive-grove of Academe, 

His sweet retirement, where the Attic bird 
Trilled her thick-warbled notes the summer long."' 

Paradise Regained. 



FROM THE VULGAR CHARGE OF POVERTY. 217 

There he lived, the unambitious friend and counsellor of 
kings, amidst his statues, his temples, and his cypresses, 
and, reposing by the whispering and haunted stream which 
flowed through them, he meditated the peace on earth 
and happiness to men, which he afterwards taught in the 
language of the gods, whose eloquence he was said by his 
panegyrists to have stolen. 

Descending to the fourth century B. C, we come to 
Aristophanes ; but of his circumstances we know noth- 
ing. Even if it were proved, however, that they were in- 
different, we should not be justified in making him an ex- 
ception; for his whole life was one long and self-sought 
war with powerful living adversaries, and therefore could 
not be very happy. Aristotle, after the death of his friend 
Plato, visited Hermias, king of the Atarnenses. On the 
fall of the latter, he erected a statue to him, and after- 
wards married his sister Pythias. He was, moreover, as 
every one knows, the master and the friend of Alexander 
the Great. Menander was probably rich, from the fact of 
his adoration of the expensive Glycera : he alludes also 
frequently to his own habits of luxurious dress. The kings 
of Egypt and Macedon so highly honored and esteemed 
him, that they sent ambassadors to invite, and fleets to 
convey him to their courts. Xenophon was of high rank, 
a commander in the army, and the favorite of Cyrus ; and 
the father of Demosthenes, we know, left him enough of 
property to make it worth his while to plead for its recov- 
ery from the hands of iniquitous guardians. What a for- 
tune would amount to, that should render such a proceed- 
ing in a court of equity at the present day at all judicious, 
our readers may ascertain by the aid of a very powerful 
calculus. 

In the third and second centuries, we have Theocritus, 

who was patronized by Ptolemy Philadelphus, and lived 

at his court ; Plautus, a slave, who, after gaining a great 

deal of money by his plays, lost it in commercial specula- 

19 



218 A VINDICATION OF AUTHORS 

tions ; and lastly, Terence, who, though a slave, rose to 
be the intimate friend of Scipio and La:;lias, and whose 
wealth, gained by his comedies, enabled him to marry his 
daughter to a Roman noble. He received three thousand 
sesterces for one performance of "The Eunuch" alone; 
and as it w^as usual to pay the author of a play each time 
it was performed, the sums which Terence received must 
have been enormous. He left a splendid house and 
gardens. 

The first century B. C, and the first after, present us 
with a long list of noble and opulent authors. Of the life 
of Lucretius few particulars are known. Cicero was of a 
noble family ; he was successively quaestor, praetor, and 
consul, and might have been a fourth party in the govern- 
ment formed by Pompey, Csesar, and Crassus. His wealth 
must have been great ; for he gave for his house on the 
Palatine, alone, a sum exceeding ,^30,000 sterling. The 
father of Catullus was the friend of Julius Caesar ; Catullus 
himself was prsetor, and afterwards governor of Bithynia; 
and Lesbia was the sister of the noble and rich Clo- 
dius, the enemy of Cicero. Virgil inherited a patrimony 
from his father at Mantua ; was enriched by Augustus, 
and received a sum equivalent to ^2000 sterling for his 
verses about Marcellus alone. Tibullus was the son of a 
knight and a man of fortune. Propertius was also noble, 
and possessed of a considerable estate ; he was the friend 
of Maecenas and Gallus. Horace was, to be sure, the son 
of a freedman; but that freedman was a tax-gatherer, and, 
it is almost needless to say, rich. His father's estate was, 
for some reason or no reason, confiscated by the govern- 
ment, but restored to Horace by Augustus. The emperor 
offered him the office of private secretary ; but he refused 
all court honors. Ovid was the younger son of a Roman 
noble, and, on the death of his elder brother, inherited his 
fortune. Livy was of an illustrious and wealthy family, 
which had given many consuls to Rome. Seneca, the 



FROM THE VULGAR CHARGE OF POVERTY. 219 

tutor of Nero, was quasstor, praetor, and consul. His 
houses, gardens, and walks, were the most magnificent in 
Rome; and he had received of the public money more 
than two millions and a half sterling in about four years. 
Persius was opulent, and bequeathed a large fortune to 
his friend Cornutus. Pliny the Elder arrived at the high 
dignity of augur : he was procurator, or treasurer, to Tibe- 
rius, and was offered for part of his MSS, 400,000 ses- 
terces. Juvenal's father was a freedman — a class generally 
rich at Rome. He, at all events, gave his son a liberal 
and learned education. Pliny the Younger was augur, 
consul, proconsul of Bithynia, and the friend of Trajan. 
Martial was ennobled by Domitian, and married a wife so 
rich, that (to use his own words) "she made him a kind 
of monarch." Quinctilian was paid liberally out of the 
public treasury for teaching oratory under Galba : he was 
patronized by Domitian, became consul, and died rich. 
Tacitus was son-in-law of Agricola, and patronized by 
Vespasian, Titus, and Domitian. It may be inferred that 
his family was wealthy and powerful, from the fact that 
M. Claudius Tacitus, who was created emperor in A. D. 
275, was descended from him. The father of Lucan, a 
Roman knight, was brother to Seneca, one of the wealth- 
iest men in Rome. Lucan himself was opulent, and fill- 
ed the ofiices of quaestor and augur. 

The second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh cen- 
turies after Christ do not present us with many names : 
we shall therefore class them all in one paragraph, which 
will bring us down to modern authors. 

Plutarch was of an old family ; his lectures were highly 
popular with the Roman nobility, and he was the friend 
of Trajan. Apuleius was a successful lawyer, and mar- 
ried a very rich widow. Longinus was tutor to the chil- 
dren of Zenobia. Mahomet was related to the heads of 
one of the noblest and wealthiest of the Arab tribes ; and 
he himself was as wealthy as he was successful. 



220 A VINDICATION OF AUTHORS 

The eleventh, twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth centu- 
ries we shall gather, like the last, under a single head. 

Dante was descended from one of the greatest families 
in Florence, and held a distinguished place at his native 
city. It is true that the political events of his time, in 
which he mingled, occasioned his exile and poverty ; but 
he died in a palace. Petrarch was the son of a wealthy 
Italian notary. He was the friend of the Colonnas, and 
resided in their palaces, and was familiar with kings, 
emperors, and pontiffs. Boccaccio was the son of a Flor- 
entine merchant, when merchants were princes: he in- 
herited property from his father, and was beloved by the 
daughter of the king (Robert), who was his patron. Chau- 
cer, according to Leland, was of noble origin : he was ap- 
pointed ambassador to Genoa, by Edward III., and possess- 
ed ^1000 a year — an enormous income for that period. 

We have now arrived at the fifteenth century. Pulci 
was the intimate and jocular friend of Lorenzo the Mag- 
nificent. Sannazaro was patronized by Frederic, son of 
the king of Naples, from whom he received a pension and 
the beautiful country-house of Mergellina ; he was courted 
by all the great of his time, and enjoyed the friendship of 
two popes. Marot lived among princes. Erasmus was 
not rich ; but then he never lived long in one place, and 
always expensively and luxuriously. Macchiavelli was 
secretary of the Florentine republic. Bojarda was a man 
of large possessions, and count of Scandiano. Ariosto 
was of a noble family, was patronized by the Este family, 
and by Leo X. ; and he must have had some pretensions to 
wealth and influence, since he expected a cardinal's hat. 
Guicciardini was of a noble Florentine family, the chief 
counsellor in Florence, married the daughter of the most 
distinguished person there, and was created governor of 
Bologna by the pope. Rabelais lived a joyous and luxurious 
life, both as a Benedictine monk, and as cure of Meudon. 

We are rapidly approaching more familiar names ; for 



FROM THE VULGAR CHARGE OF POVERTY. 221 

we are now arrived at the sixteenth century. Buchanan 
is the first. Though tutor to a prince and to the most in- 
teresting and seductive of queens, we fear his temper and 
his tastes were too much like those of Erasmus to allow 
us to class him with the rich in our catalogue. He was, 
moreover, addicted to personalities and (o quarrels, which 
made him disliked in his own country, and caused him to 
be persecuted in others. The name which comes next in 
our catalogue has passed into a proverb of poverty — but 
unjustly. The misfortunes of Camoens arose from causes 
altogether independent of his literary pursuits. If he met 
with misfortunes, his poetical genius, so far from being 
the cause of them, tended to alleviate their bitterness, 
and gained him honor, friends, and (at one time) riches. 
Montaigne was a country gentleman of fortune. Tasso 
was courted and happy up to the period of his insanity ; 
for he was undoubtedly insane. Cervantes was chamber- 
lain to one cardinal, pensioned by another, and patronized 
by a viceroy; and his "Don Quixote" was so popular, 
that 12,000 copies of the first part were sold before the 
second was printed. Sydney was a candidate for the 
crown of Poland. Spenser had fifty pounds a year as 
poet laureate (no inconsiderable sum in those days) ; 
he was sheriff of Cork, with 3000 acres of land ; and 
was patronized by Elizabeth, Lord Essex, and the noble 
family to which he belonged. De Thou and Sully 
were statesmen. Bacon was lord chancellor of England, 
and enormously rich. Lope de Vega was a knight of 
Malta, and held a rich office under Urban VIII. Cal- 
deron de la Barca was first a knight of St. lago, and af- 
terwards a fat and comfortable canon of Toledo. To re- 
turn to our own authors — Shakspeare made a fortune, and 
died the richest man in Stratford-upon-Avon. Jonson 
gained prodigious sums by his plays, though his extrava- 
gant and careless life made him always poor. Little is 
known of the private lives of Beaumont and Fletcher; 
19* 



222 A VINDICATION OF AUTHORS 

but we know that Beaumont's father was a judge, and 
Fletcher's a bishop. Grotius was a wealthy lawyer and 
statesman ; Selden a member of parliament. Of Massin- 
ger we know nothing but that his plays were popular. Of 
Ford we know almost as little ; but, at all events, he was 
the son of a justice of the peace. Butler's misfortunes 
were owing to the times, and the character of the reign- 
ing monarch; and <£3000 were ordered to be paid to the 
author of " Hudibras," though he never received the 
money. Hobbes lived in easy circumstances at Chats- 
worth. Even after Charles withdrew his patronage from 
him, he was visited, in his old age, by the most illustrious 
men of his time, and by princes and ambassadors. Sir 
Thomas Drown was a wealthy physician. Waller was 
rich, a member of parliament, and a favorite at court. 
Corneille was not only the most successful author of his 
day, but he was pensioned by Richelieu. Milton left be- 
hind him .^ISOO ; but even if it could be shown that he 
was poor, his persecutions on political accounts, and the 
fanaticism of the times, would account for his poverty. 
Cowley lived in elegant retirement, and his poetry was 
eminently successful. Moliere was poor, till he made a 
fortune by his plays. La Fontaine was a gentleman, and 
married a rich wife. Jeremy Taylor was a bishop. Dry- 
den was a person of old family ; and he gained by his 
writings, at least, .£500 a year; equal to .£1500 at the 
present day. Boileau gained an ample pension by his 
writings ; so did Racine. Bayle's works caused him 
twice to be chosen professor of philosophy. Fenelon was 
a rich archbishop. Prior was an ambassador. Swift died 
rich ; so did Congreve, Addison, Gay, and Pope. Le Sage 
was the most popular of novel-writers, and an eminently- 
successful dramatist. When Steele lost the patent of his 
theatre, he computed the loss at ten thousand pounds. 
Marivaux was one of the most successful of authors. 
Arbuthnot was the court physician. Vanbrugh was poor, 



FROM THE VULGAR CHARGE OF POVERTY. 223 

but this was in spite of his success as an author and archi 
tect, and his enjoyment of some of the most lucrative 
situations under the crown. Richardson died as rich as 
a Jew ; so did Voltaire. 

We now arrive at the eighteenth century. Thomson, 
in spite of his indolence, obtained several lucrative situa- 
tions under government, in consequence of his works. 
Dr. Johnson got a pension, and might have become rich 
by means of his writings, had he not been the most indo- 
lent of authors. Franklin raised himself by his literary 
talents. Fielding's profuse extravagance swallowed up 
the profits of his successes as an author: bat he died 
a justice of the peace. Linnceus had a grant of land 
conferred on him for his discoveries, and he was en- 
nobled by the king of Sweden. Hume had nothing, 
till his works procured him ^1000 a year. Rous- 
seau's name is not worth mentioning here : his miseries 
and poverty were voluntary. Grimm and Diderot received , 
large pensions for their literary merits. Sterne passed hi^E 
life in painting, fiddling, and shooting — occupations no«9 
at all indicative of poverty. Garrick, who died very rich, 
made his fortune as an author and actor. Smollett receiv- 
ed large sums for all his works. Goldsmith was in the 
last stage of poverty, till his writings raised him to inde- 
pendence. Burke was a statesman. Cowper received 
vast sums for his works; so did Gibbon ; yet Cowper had 
a private fortune, and Gibbon had held lucrative situations 
under the crown. Chatterton, indeed, died poor; but he 
had employment from his literary patrons as long as he 
chose to accept it. Burns was poor, not in consequence 
of being an author, but in spite of it. Schiller, Goethe, 
and Werner, were all enriched or ennobled by their poetry. 

Here we close our catalogue; for we do not venture to 
quote instances from the writers of our own times. But 
it may be stated in general, and hundreds of instances 
v/ill occur to the memory of every one, that there is 



,1 



224 A VINDICATION OF AUTHORS 

scarcely one eminent individual of the present day, who 
does not owe his riches, or rise, or distinctions, in some 
way to literature. Let our readers refer to the list we 
have given above, and they will see that scarcely one 
great, or even second-rate name in literature has been 
omitted, and that on not one can the reproach of poverty 
in consequence of authorship fall; while it will be uni- 
formly seen that literary merit has been always of advan- 
tage to those who were unfortunate from other causes. 
We have carefully looked over Mr. D'Israeli's *' Calami- 
ties of Authors," and have found, without one exception, 
either that the authors who suffered the calamities in ques- 
tion were bad authors — persons who were not in their 
" vocation " — intruders without the wedding garment — 
who of course deserved to suffer for their want of due 

r qualifications — or that the "calamities" alluded to con- 

sisted in a little gentle castigation in reviews — ridicule 
'% tt ^" popular novels — or the infliction of a satirical couplet. 
*- |pV"erily these be great " calamities," Mr. D'Israeli ! 

^ " It is not in our bond " to show, that not only good 
authors have never been poor, but that they have been, 
frequently, persons of noble or distinguished families, 
people of title, and even of royal blood. We shall, never- 
theless, refer our readers to the brief notices of authors 
which have been already given, to show that authors have 
in general been gentlemen ; and that the Greek and Ro- 
man writers were generally noble or royal ; but we have 
not room for a list of our own noble and royal authors. 
Walpole's work under that title, will furnish them with a 
list of more than one hundred and fifty literary names 
which have been illustrated by high birth ; and if the 
catalogue were continued down to our own days, the pro- 
portion would be increased rather than diminished. 

New Monthly. 



COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE. 225 



COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE. 

« 

There lived in a country not a thousand miles from 
Edinburgh, a decent farmer, who, by patient industry and 
frugality, and without being avaricious, had made himself 
easy in circumstances. He enjoyed life without being 
profuse ; for he tempered his enjoyments with moderation. 
At the age of sixty, he still retained the bloom of health 
on his cheek. He lived till that age a bachelor ; but his 
household affairs were regulated by a young woman, 
whose attentive zeal for her master's interest made it 
easy for him to enjoy his home without a wife. She was 
only in the character of his humble servant, but she was 
virtuous and prudent. Betty allotted the tasks to the ser- 
vants in the house, performed the labor within doors, dur- 
ing harvest, when all the others were engaged. She saw 
every thing kept in order, and regulated all with strict re-^ 
gard to economy and cleanliness. She had the singular 
good fortune to be at once beloved by her fellow-servants, 
as well as respected and trusted by her master. Her 
master even consulted her in matters where he knew 
she could give advice, and found it often his interest to do 
so. But her modesty was such, that she never tendered 
her advices gratuitously. Prudence regulated all her 
actions, and she kept the most respectful distance from her 
master. She paid all attention to his wants and wishes ; 
nor could a wife or daughter have been more attentive. 
When he happened to be from home, it was her province 
to wait upon him when he returned, provide his refresh- 
ment, and administer to all his wants. Then she reported 
to him the occurrences of the day, and the work which 
had been done. It did not escape her master's observa- 
tion, however, that, though she was anxious to relate 
the truth, she still strove to extenuate and hide the faults 



226 COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE. 

of those who had committed misdemeanors. Her whole 
conduct was such, that, for the period of fifteen years, 
the breath of slander dared not to hazard a whisper 
against her. 

It happened, however, that a certain maiden lady in 
the neighborhood had cast an eye upon the farmer. She 
was the niece of a bachelor minister, and lived at the 
manse in the character of housekeeper. But, with all op- 
portunity to become a competitor with Betty, she could 
never gain her character. Those people who want per- 
sonal attractions take strange means of paying court, and 
endeavoring to open the way for themselves. What they 
cannot effect by treaty, they endeavor to do by sapping. 
Scandal is their magazine, by which they attempt to 
clear their way from all obstructions. This maiden lady 
made some sinister remarks, in such a way, and in such 
a place, as were sure to reach the farmer's ear. The far- 
^ mer was nearly as much interested for the character of 
♦liis servant as he was for his own, and so soon as he dis- 
covered the authoress, made her a suitable return. But 
he made ample amends to Betty for the injury she had 
suffered, and, at the same time, rewarded her for her ser- 
vices, by taking her for his wife. By this event, the lady, 
whose intentions had been well understood, and who had 
thought of aggrandizing herself at the expense and ruin 
of poor Betty, found that she had contributed the very 
means to advance her to the realization of a fortune she 
had never hoped for. May all intermeddlers of the same 
cast have the same punishment: they are pests to society. 
Betty's success had created some speculation in the 
country. Though every one agreed that Betty deserved 
her fortune, it was often wondered how such a modest, 
unassuming girl had softened the heart of the bachelor, 
who, it was thought, was rather flinty in regard to the fair 
sex. Betty had an acquaintance, who was situated in 
nearly the same circumstances as herself, in being at the 



COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE. 227 

head of a bachelor farmer's house ; but it would appear 
that she had formed a design of conquering her master. 
If Betty used artifice, however, it was without design. 
But her neighbor could not, it would appear, believe that 
she had brought the matter to a bearing without some 
stratagem ; and she wished Betty to tell her how she liad 
gone about " courting the old man." There was, withal, 
so much native simplicity about Betty, and the manner 
of relating her own courtship and marriage is so like her- 
self, that it would lose its naivete unless told in her own 
homely Scotch way. Betty, into all, had a lisp in her 
speech, that is, a defect in speech, by which the s is always 
pronounced as tJi, which added a still deeper shade of 
simplicity to her manner ; but it would be trifling to suit 
the orthography to that common defect. The reader can 
easily suppose that he hears Betty lisping, while she is 
relating her story to her attentive friend. 

" Weel, Betty," says her acquaintance, " come, gi'e 
me a sketch, an' tell me a' about it ; for I may ha'e a 
chance mysel'. We dinna ken what's afore us. We're 
no the waur o' ha'ein' somebody to tell us the road, whan 
we dinna ken a' the cruiks and thraws in't." " Deed," 
says Betty, " there was little about it ava. Our maister 
was awa at the fair ae day selling the lambs, and it was 
gey late afore he cam' harae. Our maister verra seldom 
steys late, for he's a douce man as can be. AVeel, ye see, 
he was mair herty than I had seen him for a lang time; 
but I opine he had a gude merket for his lambs, and ther's 
room for excuse whan ane drives a gude bergen. Indeed, 
to tell even on truth, he had rather better than a wee drap 
in his e'e. It was my usual to sit up till he cam' hame, 
when he was awa. When he cam' in and gaed up stairs, 
lie fand his sipper ready for him. * Betty,' says he, very 
saft-like. ' Sir,' says I. * Betty,' says he, ' what has been 
gaun on the day — a's right, I houp? ' * Ouy, sir,' says I. 
* Very weel, very weel,' says he, in his ain canny way. 



228 COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE. 

He ga'e me a clap on the shouther, and said I was a gude 
lassie. When I had telt him a' that had been dune throu' 
the day, just as I aye did, he ga'e me another clap on the 
shouther, and said he was a fortunate man to ha'e sic a 
carefu' person about the house. I never had heard him say 
as muckle to my face before, tho' he aften said mair ahint 
my back. I really thocht he was fey. Our maister, when he 
had gotten his sipper finished, began to be verra joky ways, 
and said that I was baith a gude and bonny lassie. I kent 
that folks arna' themsels \vhan in drink, and they say rath- 
er mair than they wad do if they were sober. Sae I cam' 
awa' doon into the kitchen. 

" Twa or three days after that, our maister cam' into 
the kitchen — ' Betty,' says he. ' Sir,' says I. ' Betty,' 
says he, ' come up stairs ; I want to speak t'ye,' says he. 
' Verra weel, sir,' says I. Sae I went up stairs after him, 
thinking a' the road that he was gaun to tell me something 
about the feeding o' the swine, or killing the heefer, or 
something like that. But whan he telt me to sit doun, I 
saw there was something serious, for he never bad me sit 
doun afore but ance, and that w^1s whan he was gaun to 
Glasgow fair. * Betty,' says he, ' ye ha'e been lang a ser- 
vant to me,' says he, ' and a gude and honest servant. 
Since ye're sae gude a servant, I aften think ye'll make a 
better wife. Ha'e ye ony objection to be a wife, Betty 1 ' 
says he. ' I dinna ken, sir,' says I. ' A body canna just 
say hou they like a bargain till they see the article.' 
' Weel, Betty,' says he, * ye're verra right there again. I 
ha'e had ye for a servant these fifteen years, and I never 
knew that I could find fau't wi' ye for onything. Ye're 

carefu', honest, an' attentif, an' .' ' O, sir,' says I, 

' ye always paid me for't, and it was only my duty.' 
'Weel, weel,' says he, 'Betty, that's true; but then I 
mean to mak' amens t'ye for the evil speculation that Tib- 
by Langtongue raised about you and me, and forby, the 
warld are taking the same liberty : sae, to stop a' their 



COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE. 

mouths, you and I sail be married.' 'Verra weel, sir,' 
says 1 ; for what cou'd I say 1 

" Our maister looks into the kitchen another day, an' 
says, ' Betty,' says he. * Sir,' says I. ' Betty,' says he, 
' I am gaun to gi'e in our names to be cried in the kirk, 
this and next Sabbath.' ' Verra weel, sir,' says I. 

" About eight days after this, our maister says to me, 

* Betty,' says he. ' Sir,' says I. ' I think,' says he, ' we 
will ha'e the marriage put owre neist Friday, if ye ha'e 
nae objection.' * Verra weel, sir,' says I. ' And ye'll 
tak' the grey yad, and gang to the toun on Monday, 
an' get your bits o' wedding braws. I ha'e spoken to Mr. 
Cheap, the draper, and ye can tak' aff onything ye want, 
an' please yoursell, for I canna get awa that day.' ' Ver- 
ra weel, sir,' says I. 

*' Sae I gaed awa to the toun on Monday, an' bought 
some wee bits o' things ; but I had plenty o' claes, and I 
cou'dna think o' being 'stravagant. I took them to the 
manty-maker, to get made, and they were sent hame on 
Thursday. 

"On Thursday night, our maister says to me, 'Betty,' 
says he. * Sir,' says I. ' To-morrow is our wedding-day,' 
says he, ' an' ye maun see that a' things are prepared for 
the denner,' says he, ' an' see every thing dune yoursel,* 
says he, ' for I expect some company, an' I wad like to 
see every thing feat and tiddy in your ain way,' says he. 

* Very weel, sir,' says I. 

'* I had never ta'en a serious thought about the matter 
till now ; and I began to consider that I must exert mysel 
to please my maister and the company. Sae I got 
every thing in readiness, and got every thing clean — I 
cou'dna think ought was dune right except my ain hand 
was in't. 

*' On Friday morning, our maister says to me, ' Betty,' 
says he. ' Sir,' says I. ' Go away and get yoursel dress- 
ed,' says he, * for the company will soon be here, and ye 
20 



230 COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE. 

maun be decent. An' ye maun stay in the room up stairs,' 
says he, * till ye're sent for,' says he. ' Verra weel, sir,' 
says I. But there was sic a great deal to do, and sae 
many grand dishes to prepare for the dinner to the com- 
pany, that I could not get awa', and the hail folk were 
come afore I got mysel dressed. 

'' Our maister cam' doun stairs, and telt me to go up 
that instant and dress mysel, for the minister was just 
comin doun the loan. Sae I was obliged to leave every 
thing to the rest of the servants, an' gang up stairs, an* 
pit on my claes. 

'' When I was wanted, Mr. Brown o' the Haaslybrae 
cam' and took me into the room among a' the gran' fouk, 
an' the minister. I was maist like to fent ; for I never 
saw sae mony gran' folk together a' my born days afore, 
an* I didna ken whar to look. At last, our maister took 
me by the han', an' I was greatly relieved. The minister 
said a great deal to us — but I canna mind it a' — and then 
he said a prayer. After this, I thought I should ha'e been 
worried wi' folk kissing me, — mony a yin shook hands 
wi' me I had never seen afore, and wished me much joy. 

" After the ceremony was o'er, I slipped awa' doun 
into the kitchen again amang the rest o' the servants to 
see if the dinner was a* right. But in a wee time our 
maister cam' into the kitchen, an' says, ' Betty,' says he. 
' Sir,' says I. ' Betty,' says he, ' ye must consider that 
ye're no longer my servant, but my wife,' says he ; * and 
therefore ye must come up stairs and sit amongst the rest 
of the company,' says he. 'Verra weel, sir,' says I. Sae 
what could I do, but gang up stairs to the rest of the com- 
pany, an' sit doun among them ? I sat there in a corner, 
as weel out o' sight as I could, for they were a' speaking 
to me or looking at me, an' I didna ken how to behave 
amang sic braw company, or how to answer them. I sat 
there till it was gey late, and our maister made me drink 
the company's healths, and they gaed a' away. 



THE PLAY AT VENICE. 231 

'* When the company were a' gaen awa', I went doun 
to the kitchen, and saw that every thing was right; and 
after I put a candle into my maister's bed-room, I took an- 
other, and gaed away up to my ain wee room in the garret. 
Just whan I was casting aff my shune, I hears our maister 
first gang into his ain room, and then come straight awa' 
up towards mine. I think I can hear him yet, for it was 
siccan extraord'nar thing, and I never saw him there afore ; 
and every stamp o' his feet gaed thunt, thunt to my very 
hert. He stood at the cheek o' the door, and said, very 
saftly, ' Betty,' says he. * Sir,' says I — ' But what brought 
ye here, sir,' says I. ' Naething,' says he. ' Verra weel, 
naething be it, sir,' says I. ' But,' says he, ' remember 
that ye're no longer my servant, but my wife,' says he. 
* Verra weel, sir,' says I ; 'I will remember that.' ' And 
ye must come down stairs,' says he, ' Verra weel, sir,' 
says I ; for what could I do ? I had always obeyed my 
maister before, and it was nae time to disobey him now. 

^' Sae, Jean, that was a' that was about my courtship 
or marriage." 

Scottish Lit. Gazette. 



THE PLAY AT VENICE. 

Some years since, a German prince, making a tour 
of Europe, stopped at Venice for a short period. It was 
the close of summer ; the Adriatic was calm, the nights 
were lovely, and the Venetian women in the full enjoyment 
of those delicious spirits, that, in their climate, rise and 
fall with the coming and the departure of the finest season 
of the year. Every day was given by the illustrious 
stranger to research among the records and antiquities of 
this singular city, and every night to parties on the Bren- 



^2 THE PLAY AT VENICE. 

ta. When the morning was nigh, it was the custom to 
return from the water to sup at some of the palaces of the 
nobility. 

In the commencement of his intercourse, all national 
distinctions were carefully suppressed ; but, as his inti- 
macy increased, he was forced to see the lurking vanity 
of the Italian breaking out. One of its most frequent 
exhibitions was in the little dramas that wound up these 
stately festivals. The wit was constantly sharpened by 
some contrast of the Italian and the German, some slight 
aspersions on Teutonic rudeness, some remark on the 
history of a people untouched by the elegance of southern 
manners. The sarcasm was conveyed with Italian grace, 
and the offence softened by its humor. It was obvious 
that the only retaliation must be humorous. 

At length the prince, on the point of taking leave, in- 
vited his entertainers to a farewell supper. He drew the 
conversation to the infinite superiority of the Italian, and 
above all of the Venetian, acknowledged the darkness in 
which Germany had been destined to remain so long, and 
looked forward with infinite sorrow to the comparative 
opinion of posterity upon the country to which so little of 
its gratitude must be due. " But, my lords," said he, 
" we are an emulous people, and an example like yours 
cannot be lost even upon a German. I have been charmed 
with your dramas, and have contrived a little arrangement 
to give one of our country, if you will condescend to fol- 
low me to the great hall." The company rose and follow- 
ed him through the splendid suit of Venetian villas to the 
hall, which was fitted up as a German barn. 

The aspect of the theatre produced first surprise, and 
next an universal smile. It had no resemblance to the 
gilded and sculptured saloons of their own sumptuous little 
theatres. However, it was only so much the more Teu- 
tonic. The curtain drew up. The surprise rose into loud 
laughter, even among the Venetians, who have been sel- 



THE PLAY AT VENICE. 233 

dom betrayed into any thing beyond a smile, for genera- 
tions together. 

The stage was a temporary erection, rude and uneven. 
The scenes represented a wretched and irregular street, 
scarcely lighted by a few twinkling lamps, and looking 
the fit haunt of robbery and assassination. On a narrow 
view some of the noble spectators began to think it had a 
kind of resemblance to an Italian street, and some actu- 
ally discovered in it one of the leading streets of their 
own famous city. But the play was on a German story ; 
they were under a German roof. The street was, not- 
withstanding its ill-omened similitude, of course, German. 
The street was solitary. At length a traveller, a German, 
with pistols in a belt round his waist, and apparently ex- 
hausted by his journey, came pacing along. He knock- 
ed at several doors, but could obtain no admission. He 
then wrapped himself up in his cloak, sat down on a 
fragment of a monument, and soliloquized. 

" Well, here have I come ; and this is my reception. 
All palaces, no inns ; all nobles, and not a man to tell me 
where I can lie down in comfort or in safety. Well, it 
cannot be helped. A German does not much care ; cam- 
paigning has hardened us. Hunger and thirst, heat and 
cold, dangers of war, and the roads, are not very formida- 
ble, after what we have had to work through from father 
to son. Loneliness, however, is not so well, unless a man 
can labor or read. Read ! — that's true ; come out, Zim- 
merman." He took a volume from his pocket, moved 
nearer to the decaying lamp, and soon seemed absorbed. 

Another soon shared the eyes of the spectators. A long, 
light figure came with a kind of visionary movement, 
from behind the monument, surveyed the traveller with 
keen curiosity, listened with apparent astonishment to his 
words, and in another moment had fixed itself gazing over 
his shoulder on the volume. The eyes of this singular 
20* 



234 THE PLAY AT VENICE. 

being wandered rapidly over the page ; and, when it was 
turned, they were lifted to heaven with the strongest 
expressions of wonder. The German was weary ; his head 
soon drooped over his study, and he closed the book. 

** What," said he, rising, and stretching his limbs ; *' is 
there no one stirring in this comfortless place ? Is it not 
near day ? " He took out his repeater, and touched the 
pendent ; it struck four. His mysterious attendant had 
watched him narrowly ; the repeater was traversed over 
with an eager gaze ; but when it struck, delight was min- 
gled with wonder, that had till then filled its pale intelli- 
gent countenance. " Four o' clock," said the German. 
** In my country, half the world would be thinking of go- 
ing to their day's work by this time. In another hour, it 
will be sunrise. Well, then, I'll do you a service, you 
nation of sleepers, and make you open your eyes." He 
drew out one of his pistols, and fired it. The attendant 
form, still hovering behind him, had looked curiously upon 
the pistol, but, on its going off, started back in terror, and 
with a loud cry that made the traveller turn. 

'* Who are you 1 " was his greeting to this strange in- 
truder. 

'* I will not hurt you," was the answer. 

" Who cares about that 1 " was the German's retort ; 
and he pulled out the other pistol. 

** My friend," said the figure, " even that weapon of 
thunder and lightning cannot reach me now; but if you 
would know who I am, let me entreat you to satisfy my 
curiosity a moment. You seem a man of extraordinary 
powers." 

'* Well, then," said the German, in a gentler voice, " if 
you come as a friend, I shall be glad to give you informa- 
tion : it is the custom of our country to deny nothing to 
those who love to learn." 

The former sighed deeply, and murmured, " And yet 



THE PLAY AT VENICE, 235 

you are a Teuton. But you were just reading a little case 
of strange, and yet most interesting figures : was it a 
manuscript?" 

"No, it was a printed book." 

*' Printed ? What is printing ? I never heard but of 
writing." 

" It is an art by which one man can give to the world, 
in one day, as much as three hundred could give by writ- 
ing, and in a character of superior clearness, correctness, 
and beauty ; one by which books are made universal, and 
literature eternal." 

" Admirable, glorious art!" said the inquirer; "who 
was its illustrious inventor 1 " 

" A German." 

" But another question. I saw you look at a most curi- 
ous instrument traced with figures : it sparkled with dia- 
monds; but its greatest wonder was its sound. It gave 
the hour with miraculous exactness^ and the strokes were 
followed by tones superior to the sweetest music of my 
day ? " 

" That was a repeater." 

" How ? When I had the luxuries of the earth at my 
command, I had nothing to tell the hour better than the 
clepsydra and the sun-dial. But this must be incompara- 
ble from its facility of being carried about, — from its suit- 
ableness to all hours, — from its exactness. It must be an 
admirable guide even to a higher knowledge. All de- 
pends upon the exactness of time. It may assist naviga- 
tion, astronomy. What an invention ! Whose was it ? 
He must be more than man." 

" He was a German." 

"What, still a barbarian ! I remember his nation. I 
once saw an auxiliary legion of them marching towards 
Rome. They were a bold and brave, blue-eyed troop. 
The whole city poured out to see those northern warriors ; 
but we looked on them only as savages. I have one 



236 THE PLAY AT VENICE. 

more question, the most interesting of all. I saw you 
raise your hand, with a small truncheon in it : in a mo- 
ment something rushed out, that seemed a portion of the 
fire of the clouds. Were they thunder and lightning that 
I saw 1 Did they come by your command ? Was that 
truncheon a talisman? and are you a mighty magician ? 
Was that truncheon a sceptre commanding the elements ? 
Are you a god 1 " 

The strange inquirer had drawn back gradually as his 
feelings rose. Curiosity was now solemn wonder, and 
he stood gazing upward in an attitude that mingled awe 
with devotion. The German felt the sensation of a supe- 
rior presence growing on himself, as he looked on the 
fixed countenance of this mysterious being. It was in 
that misty blending of light and darkness, which the 
moon leaves as it sinks just before morn. There was a 
single hue of pale gray in the east, that touched its visage 
with a chill light; the moon, resting broadly on the hori- 
zon, was setting behind : the figure seemed as if it was 
standing in the orb. Its arms were lifted towards heaven, 
and the light came through its drapery with the mild 
splendor of a vision ; but the German, habituated to the 
vicissitudes of " perils by flood and field," shook off his 
brief alarm, and proceeded calmly to explain the source 
of this miracle. He gave a slight detail of the machinery 
of the pistol, and alluded to the history of gunpowder. 
" It must be a mighty instrument in the hands of man, 
for either good or ill," said the former. '' How much it 
must change the nature of war ! How much it must in- 
fluence the fate of nations ! By whom was this wondrous 
secret revealed to the treaders upon earth ? " 

*' A German." 

The form seemed suddenly to enlarge ; its feebleness 
of voice was gone ; its attitude was irresistibly noble. Be- 
fore it uttered a word, it looked as made to persuade and 
command. Its outer robe had been flung away : it stood 



THE PLAY AT VENICE. 237 

with an antique dress of brilliant white, gathered in many 
folds, and edged with a deep border of purple ; a slight 
wreath of laurel, dazzling green, was on its brow. It 
looked like the genius of eloquence. " Stranger," it said, 
pointing to the Apennines, which were then beginning to 
be marked by the twilight, '* eighteen hundred years have 
passed since I was the glory of all beyond those mountains. 
Eighteen hundred years have passed into the great flood 
of eternity since I entered Rome in triumph, and was 
honored as the leading mind of the great intellectual 
empire of the world. But I knew nothing of those things. 
I was a child to you ; we were all children to the discov- 
erers of those glorious potencies. But has Italy not been 
still the mistress of mind 1 She was then first of the 
first : has she not kept her superiority 1 Show me her no- 
ble inventions. I must soon sink from the earth — let me 
learn still to love my country." 

The listener started back. " Who, what are you ? " 
" I am a spirit. I was Cicero. Show me, by the love 
of a patriot, what Italy now sends out to enlighten man- 
kind." 

The German looked embarrassed; but, in a moment 
after, he heard the sound of a pipe and tabor. He point- 
ed in silence to the narrow street from which the inter- 
ruption came. A ragged figure tottered out with a barrel 
organ at his back, a frame of puppets in his hand, a hur- 
dy-gurdy round his neck, and a string of dancing dogs in 
his train. Cicero uttered but one sigh — " Is this Italy ! " 
The German bowed his head. The showman began his 
cry — " Raree show, fine raree show against the wall! 
Fine Madama Catrina dance upon de ground. Who come 
for de galantee show ! " The organ struck up, the dogs 
danced, the Italian capered round them. Cicero raised 
his broad gaze to heaven. " These the men of my coun- 
try ! These the orators, the poets, the patriots of man- 
kind ! What scorn and curse of Providence can have 



238 THE SON AND HEIR. 

fallen upon them ! " As he gazed, tears suddenly suffused 
his eyes ; the first sun-beam struck across the spot where 
he stood ; a purple mist rose around him, and he was gone ! 

********* 

The Venetians, with one accord, started from their 
seats and rushed out of the hall. The prince and his 
suite had previously arranged every thing for leaving the 
city, and they were beyond the Venetian territory by sun- 
rise. Another night in Venice, they would have been on 
their way to the other world. 



THE SON AND HEIR 3— A STORY FOR THE 
IRASCIBLE. 

My youth was passed in the thoughtless and extrava- 
gant gayety of the French court. My temper was always 
violent ; and I returned home one morning, long after mid- 
night, frantic with rage at some imaginary insult which I 
had received. My servant endeavored to speak to me as 
I entered the house; but I repulsed him violently, and 
rushed up to my room. I locked the door, and sat down 
instantly to write a challenge. My hand trembled so much 
that it would not hold the pen : I started up and paced the 
room : the pen was again in my hand, when I heard a low 
voice speaking earnestly at the door, entreating to be ad- 
mitted. The voice was that of my father's old and favorite 
servant. I opened the door to him. The old man looked 
upon me with a very sorrowful countenance, and I hastily 
demanded the reason of his appearance. He stared at me 
with surprise, and spoke not : he walked to the table where I 
had sat down, and took from it a letter, which, in my rage, 
I had not noticed. It announced to me the dangerous ill- 
ness of my father : it was written by my mother, and en- 



THE SON AND HEiR. 239 

treatingly besought me instantly to return to them. Be- 
fore dawn 1 was far from Paris. My father's residence 
was in the north of England. I arrived here only in time 
to follow the corpse of my beloved father to the grave. 
Immediately on my return from the funeral, my mother 
sent to me, requesting my attendance in her own apart- 
ment. Traces of a deep-seated grief were fresh upon her 
fine countenance ; but she received me with calm serious- 
ness. Love for her living child had struggled with her 
sorrow for the dead ; and she had chosen that hour to 
rouse me from the follies, from the sins of my past life. 
My mother was always a superior woman. I felt, as I 
listened to her, the real dignity of a Christian matron's 
character. She won me by the truth, the affection, the 
gentleness of her words. She spoke plainly of my de- 
grading conduct, but she did not upbraid me. She set 
before me the new duties which I was called upon to per- 
form. She said, " I know you will not trifle with those 
duties. You are not your own, my son ; you must not 
live to yourself; you profess the name of Christian ; you 
can hold no higher profession. God hath said to each of 
us, ' My son, give me thine heart.' Have you given your 
heart and its desires to God? Can you be that pitiful 
creature, a half Christian ? I have spoken thus, because 
I know that, if you have clear ideas of your first duties, 
and do strive to perform them, then will your relative du- 
ties be no longer lightly regarded. Oh, my son, God knows 
what I feel in speaking to you thus in my lieaviest hour 
of affliction ; and 1 can only speak as a feeble and per- 
plexed woman. I know not how to counsel you; but I do 
beseech you to think for yourself, and to pray earnestly to 
God for his wisdom and guidance." Before I left my 
mother's presence, she spoke to me also on my master 
passion, anger, mad ungovernable rage. She told me that, 
even in the early years of my childhood, she had trem- 
bled at my anger : she confessed that she dreaded to hear, 



THE SON AND HEIR. 

while I was absent, that it had plunged me into some hor- 
rid crime. She knew not how just her fears had been ; 
for had not my father's death recalled me to England, I 
should probably have been the murderer of that thought- 
less strippling who had unknowingly provoked me, and 
whom I was about to challenge to fight on the morning I 
left Versailles. 

My mother did not speak to me in vain. I determined 
to turn at once from my former ways, to regulate my con- 
duct by the high and holy principles of the religion I pro- 
fessed, and to reside on my own estate, in habits of manly 
and domestic simplicity. 

About three years after I had succeeded to the titles 
and possessions of my forefathers, I became the husband 
of the Lady Jane N — e ; and I thought myself truly happy. 
Two years passed away, and every day endeared my sweet 
wife to my heart ; but I was not quite happy. We had no 
child. I had but one wish ; one blessing seemed alone 
denied — the birth of a son. My thoughts, in all their 
wanderings, reverted to one hope — the birth of a son — an 
heir to the name, the rank, the estates of my family. 
When I knelt before God, I forgot to pray that he would 
teach me what to pray for ; I did not entreat that his wis- 
dom would direct me how to use what his goodness gave. 
No, I prayed as for my life, I prayed without ceasing, but 
I chose the blessing. I prayed for a son — my prayers 
were at last granted — a son was born to us — a beautiful, 
healthy boy. I thought myself perfectly happy. My de- 
light was more than ever to live in the pleasant retirement 
of my own home, so that year after year passed away, and 
only settled me down more entirely in the habits of domes- 
tic life. My boy grew up to be a tall and healthy lad ; his 
intellect was far beyond his years; and I loved to make 
him my companion, as much from the charming freshness 
of his thoughts, as from the warmth of my attachment to- 
wards the child. I learned to wonder at the satisfaction 



THE SON AND HEIR. 241 

I had once felt in mere worldly society, as I studied the 
character of my son. He was not without the faults which 
all children possess, which are rooted deep in human na- 
ture ; but in all his faults, in his deceit, — and what child is 
not taught deceit by his own heart ? — there was a charm- 
ing awkwardness, an absence of all worldly trick, which 
appeared then very new to me. I used all my efforts to 
prevent vice from becoming habitual to him ; I strove to 
teach him the government of himself, by referring not only 
every action, but every thought, to one high and holy prin- 
ciple of thinking and acting to God ; and I strove to build 
up consistent habits on the foundation of holy principle. 
I was so anxious about my son, that I did not dare to treat 
his faults with a foolish indulgence. I taught him to know 
that I could punish, and that I would be obeyed ; yet he 
lived with me, I think, in all confidence of speech and 
action, and seemed never so happy as when he sat at my 
feet, and asked me, in the eagerness of his happy fancies, 
more questions than I could, in truth, answer. I cannot 
go on speaking thus of those joyous times which are gone 
forever; I will turn to a darker subject — to myself 
While I gave up my time, my thoughts, my soul's best en- 
ergies to my child, I neglected myself, the improvement 
of my own heart and its dispositions. This may seem 
strange and improbable to some. It may be imagined that 
the habits of strict virtue which I taught to my son would, 
in the teaching, have been learnt by myself; and that, in 
the search after sound wisdom for him, I must have turn-^ 
ed up, as it were, many treasures needed by myself. It 
would be so in most instances, perchance ; it was not so in. 
mine. The glory of God had not been my first wish when 
I prayed for a son. I had imposed upon myself in think- 
ing that I acted in the education of my child upon that 
sacred principle. It was honor among men I looked for.. 
I had sought to make my son every thing that was excels 
lent; but I had not sought to make myself ^i for the work 
21 



242 THE SON AND HEIR. 

I undertook. My own natural faults had been suffered by 
me to grow almost unchecked, while I had been watchful 
over the heart of my child. Above all, the natural infirm- 
ity of my character — anger, violent, outrageous anger — was 
at times the master, the tyrant of my soul. Too frequent- 
ly had I corrected my child for the fault which he inherit- 
ed from me ; but how had I done so ? when passionately 
angry myself, I had punished my boy for want of temper. 
Could it be expected that Maurice would profit by my in- 
structions, when my example too often belied my words 1 
But I will pass on at once to my guilt. 

The countess, my mother, had given to Maurice a beau- 
tiful Arabian horse. I loved to encourage the boy in all 
manly exercises. While a mere child, he rode with a grace 
which I have seldom seen surpassed by the best horsemen. 
How nobly would he bear himself, as, side by side on our 
fleet horses, we flew over the open country ! Often, often 
do I behold in memory his clear, sparkling eyes glancing 
with intelligence ; his fair brow contracted with that slight 
and peculiar frown, which gives assurance that the mind 
shares in the smile of the lips. Often do I see before me 
the pure glow flooding over his cheek, the waves of bright 
hair floating away from his shoulders, as he galloped full 
in the face of the fine free wind. 

My boy loved his Araby courser as all noble-spirited 
boys love a favorite horse. He loved to dress, and to feed, 
and to caress the beautiful creature ; and Selim knew his 
small, gentle hand, and would arch his sleek and shining 
neck when the boy drew nigh, and turn his dark, lustrous 
eye, with a look like that of pleased recognition, on him, 
when his master spoke. 

My child was about eleven years old at the time I must 
now speak of He usually passed many hours of the morn- 
ing in the library with me. It was on the 17th of June, a 
lovely spring morning, Maurice had been very restless and 
inattentive to his books. The sunbeams dazzled his eyes. 



THE SON AND HEIR. 24i3 

and the fresh wind fluttered among the pages before him. 
The boy removed his books, and sat down at a table far 
from the open window. I turned round, an hour after, 
from a volume which had abstracted all my thoughts. 
The weather was very hot, and the child had fallen fast 
asleep. He started up at once when I spoke. I asked 
him if he could say his lesson? He replied, " Yes," and 
brought the book instantly ; but he scarcely knew a word, 
and he seemed careless, and even indifferent. I blamed 
him, and he replied petulantly. I had given back the 
book to him, when a servant entered, and told me that a 
person was waiting my presence below. With a somewhat 
angry tone, I desired the boy not to stir from the room 
till I returned, and then to let me hear him say his lesson 
perfectly. He promised to obey me. There is a small 
closet opening from the library ; the window of this closet 
overlooks the stable. Probably the dear child obeyed me 
in learning perfectly his lesson ; but T was detained long ; 
and he went to the closet in which I had allowed him to 
keep the books belonging to himself A bow and arrows, 
which I had lately given him, were there; perhaps the 
boy could not resist looking on them ; they were lying on 
the floor when I entered afterwards. From that closet 
Maurice heard the sound of a whip — he heard quick and 
brutal strokes falling heavily. Springing up, he ran to the 
window ; beneath, he saw one of the grooms beating, with 
savage cruelty, his beautiful and favorite little courser. 
The animal seemed almost maddened with the blows ; and 
the child called out loudly to bid the man desist. At first 
the groom scarcely heeded him, and then, smiling coldly 
at the indignant boy, told him that the beating was neces- 
sary, and that so young a gentleman could not understand 
how a horse should be managed. In vain did my child 
command the brutal fellow to stop. The man pretended 
not to hear him, and led the spirited creature farther away 
from beneath the window. Instantly the boy rushed from 



244 THE SON AND HEIR. 

the room, and in a few moments was in the yard below. 
I entered the library shortly after my son had left it. The 
person who had detained me, brought news which had 
much disconcerted, nay, displeased me. I was in a very 
ill humor when I returned to the room where I had left 
Maurice; I looked vainly for him, and was very angry to 
perceive that my request had been disobeyed ; the closet 
door was open ; I sought him there. While I wondered 
at his absence, I heard his voice loud in anger. For some 
moments, I gazed from the window in silence. Beneath 
stood the boy, holding with one hand the reins of his 
courser, who trembled all over, his fine coat and slender 
legs reeking and streaming with sweat ; in his other hand 
there was a horse-whip, with which the enraged boy was 
lashing the brutal groom. In a voice of loud anger, I 
called out. The child looked up; and the man, who had 
before stood with his arms folded, and a smile of calm in- 
solence on his face, now spoke with pretended mildness, 
more provoking to the child, but which then convinced 
me that Maurice was in fault. He spoke, but I silenced 
him, and commanded him to come up to me instantly. He 
came instantly, and stood before me yet panting with emo- 
tion, his face all flushed, and his eyes sparkling with pas- 
sion. Again he would have spoken, but I would not 
hear. "Tell me, sir," I cried; "answer me one ques- 
tion ; are you right, or wrong? " "Right," the boy re- 
plied, proudly. He argued with me — my fury burst out. 
Alas ! I knew not what I did ! but I snatched the whip 
from his hand ; I raised the heavy handle ; I meant not 
to strike where I did. The blow fell with horrid force on 
his fair head. There was iron on the handle, and my 
child, my only son, dropped lifeless at my feet. Ere he 
fell, I was deadly cold, and the murderous weapon had 
dropped away from my hand. Stiffened with horror, I 
stood over him speechless, and rooted awhile to the spot. 
At last the yells of my despair brought others to me ; the 



THE SON ANT) HEIR. 245 

wretched groom was the first who came I saw no more, 
but fell in a fit beside my lifeless child. 

When I woke up to a sense of what passed around me, 
I saw the sweet countenance of my wife bent over me 
with an expression of most anxious tenderness. She was 
wiping away the tears from her eyes, and a faint smile 
broke into her face as she perceived my returning sense. 

I caught hold of her arm with a strong grasp, and lifted 
up my head ; but my eyes looked for the body of my 
child — it was not there. "Where is it?" I cried; 
" where is the body of my murdered boy ? " When I 
spoke the word " murdered," my wife shrieked — I was 
rushing out — she stopped me, and said, "He is not dead; 
he is alive." My heart melted within me, and tears rain- 
ed from my eyes. My wife led me to the chamber where 
they had laid my child. He was alive, if such a state 
could be called life. Still his eyelids were closed ; still 
his cheeks, even his lips, were of a ghastly whiteness ; 
still his limbs were cold and motionless. They had un- 
dressed him, and my mother sat in silent grief beside his 
bed. When I came near, she uncovered his fair chest, 
and placed my hand over his heart. I felt a thick and 
languid beating there, but the pulse of his wrists and tem- 
ples was scarcely perceptible. My mother spoke to me. 
" We have examined the poor child," she said, " but we 
find no wound, no bruise, no marks of violence. Whence 
is this dreadful stupor? No one can answer me." "I 
can answer you," I said : " no one can answer but myself. 
I am the murderer of the child. In my hellish rage, I 
struck his blessed head." I did not see the face of my 
wife, or my mother ; as I spoke, I hung my head ; but I 
felt my wife's hand drop from me ; I heard my mother's 
low, heart-breakin.g groan. I looked up, and saw my wife. 
She stood before me like a marble figure rather than a 
creature of life ; yet her eyes were fixed on me, and her 
soul seemed to look out in their gaze. " Oh, my husband/* 
21 * 



246 THE SON AND HEIR. 

she cried out at length, ** I see plainly in your face what 
you suffer. Blessed God, have mercy, have mercy on 
him ! He suffers more than we all. His punishment is 
greater than he can bear!" She flung her arms round 
my neck ; she strove to press me nearer to her bosom ; 
but I would have withdrawn myself from her embrace. 
" Oh, do not shame me thus," I cried ; " remember, you 
must remember, that you are a mother." " I cannot for- 
get that I am a wife, my husband," she replied, weeping. 
'* No, no; I feel for you, and I must feel with you in every 
sorrow. How do I feel with you now, in this overwhelm- 
ing affliction ! " My mother had fallen on her knees when 
I declared ray guilt; my wife drew me towards her; and, 
rising up, she looked me in the face. " Henry," she said, 
in a faint, deep voice, " I have been praying for you, for 
us all. My son, look not thus from me." As she was 
speaking, the surgeon of my household, who had been 
absent when they first sent for him, entered the chamber. 
My kind mother turned from me, and went at once with 
him to the bedside of the child. I perceived her inten- 
tion to prevent my encountering the surgeon. She would 
have concealed, at least for a while, her son's dis- 
grace : but I felt my horrid guilt too deeply to care about 
shame. Yet I could not but groan within me, to per- 
ceive the good man's stare, his revolting shudder, while 
I described minutely the particulars of my conduct to- 
wards my poor boy. I stood beside him as he examined 
the head of my child. I saw him cut away the rich curls; 
and he pointed out to me a slight swelling beneath them; 
but in vain did he strive to recover the lifeless form : his 
efforts were, as those of my wife and mother had been, 
totally without success. For five days, I sat by the bed- 
side of my son, who remained, as at first, still in that death- 
•like stupor, but gradually a faint, life-like animation stole 
over him ; so gradually indeed, that he opened not his eyes 
till the evening of the fourth day; and, even then, he knew 



THE SON AND HEIR. 247 

US not, and noticed nothing. Oh, few can nnagine what 
my feelings were ! How my first faint hopes lived, and 
died, and lived again, as the beating of his heart became 
more full and strong — as he first moved the small hand, 
which I held in mine, and at last stretched out his limbs. 
After he had unclosed his eyes, he breathed with the soft 
and regular respiration of a healthy person, and then 
slept for many hours. It was about noon on the fifth day, 
that he woke from that sleep. The sun had shone so 
full into the room, that I partly closed the shutters to 
shade his face. Some rays of sunshine pierced through 
the crevices of the shutter, and played upon the coverlet 
of his bed. My child's face was turned towards me, and 
I watched eagerly for the first gleam of expression there. 
He looked up, and then around him, without moving his 
head. My heart grew sick within me, as I beheld the 
smile which played over his face. He perceived the dan- 
cing sunbeam, and put his fingers softly into the streak of 
light, and took them away, and smiled again. I spoke to 
him, and took his hand in my own ; but he had lost all 
memory of me, and saw nothing in my face to make him 
smile. He looked down on my trembling hand, and play- 
ed with my fingers ; and when he saw the ring which I 
wore, he played with that, while the same idiot smile came 
back to his vacant countenance. 

My mother now led me from the room. I no longer re- 
fused to go. I felt that it was fit that I should " commune 
with my own heart, and in my chamber, and be still." 
They judged rightly in leaving me to perfect solitude. 
The calm of my misery was a change like happiness to 
me. A deadness of every faculty, of all thought and feel- 
ing, fell on me like repose. When Jane came to me, I 
had no thought to perceive her presence. She took my 
hands tenderly within hers, and sat down beside me on 
the floor. She lifted up my head from the boards, and 
supported it on her knees. I believe she spoke to me 



248 THE SON AND HEIR. 

many times without my replying. At last I heard her, 
and rose up at her entreaties. ** You are ill ; your hands 
are burning, my beloved," she said. "Go to bed, I be- 
seech you. You need rest." I did as she told me. She 
thought I slept that night ; but the lids seemed tightened 
and drawn back from my burning eye-balls. All the next 
day I lay in the same hot and motionless state — I cannot 
call it repose. 

For days I did not rise. I allowed myself to sink un- 
der the weight of my despair. I began to give up every 
idea of exertion. 

My mother, one morning, came to my chamber. She 
sat down by my bedside, and spoke to me. I did not, 
could not, care to notice her who spoke to me. My 
mother rose, and walked round to the other side of the 
bed, towards which my face was turned. There she stood, 
and spoke again solemnly. " Henry," she said, " I com- 
mand you to rise. Dare you to disobey your mother 1 No 
more of this unmanly weakness. I must not speak in 
vain. I have needed to command before. My son, be your- 
self Think of all the claims which this life has upon 
you; or, rather, think of the first high claim of Heaven, 
and let that teach you to think of other duties, and to per- 
form them. Search your own heart. Probe it deeply. 
Shrink not. Know your real situation in all its bearings. 
Changed as it is, face it like a man, and seek the strength 
of God to support you. I speak the plain truth to you. 
Your child is an idiot. You must answer to God for your 
crime. You will be execrated by mankind, for i/our hand 
struck the mind's life from him. These are harsh words, 
but you can bear them better than your own confused and 
agonizing thoughts. Rise up and meet your trial. Tell 
me simply that you obey me. I will believe you, for you 
never yet have broken your word to me." I replied im- 
mediately, rising up, a'.id saying, ** I do promise to obey 
you. Within this hour I will meet you, determined to 



THE SON AND HEIR. 249 

know my duties, and to perform them by the help of God." 
Oh ! with what a look did my noble mother regard me, as 
I spoke. " God strengthen you, and bless you," she said ; 
" I cannot now trust myself to say more." Her voice was 
feeble and trembling now ; her lip quivered, and a bright 
flush spread over her thin, pale cheek ; she bent down 
over me, and kissed my forehead, and then departed. 

Within an hour from the time when my mother left me, 
I went forth from my chamber with a firm step, determin- 
ed again to enter upon the performance of my long-neg- 
lected duties. I had descended the tast step of the grand 
staircase, when I heard a laugh in the hall beyond. I 
knew there was but one who could then laugh so wildly ; 
and too well I knew the sound of the voice which broke out 
in tones of wild merriment ere the laugh ceased. For some 
moments my resolution forsook me. I caught hold of the 
balustrade to support my trembling limbs, and repressed, 
with a violent effort, the groans which I felt bursting from 
my heart. I recovered myself, and walked into the hall. 
In the western oriel window, which is opposite the door 
by which I entered, sat my revered mother : she lifted 
up her face from the large volume which lay on her knees, 
as my step sounded near : she smiled upon me, and look- 
ed down again without speaking. I passed on, but stop- 
ped again to gaze on those who now met my sight. In 
the centre of the hall stood my wife, leaning her cheek 
on her hand. She gazed upon her son with a smile ; but 
the tears all the while trickled down her face. Maurice 
was at her feet, the floor around him strewed over with 
playthings, the toys of his infancy, which he had for years 
thrown aside, but had discovered that very morning ; and 
he turned from one to the other as if he saw them for the 
first time, and looked upon them all as treasures. An ex- 
pression of rapturous silliness played over the boy's fea- 
tures ; but, alas ! though nothing but a fearful childishness 
was on his face, all the child-like bloom and roundness of 



250 THE SON AND HEIR. 

that face were gone. The boy now looked, indeed, older 
by many years. The smiles on his thin lips seemed to 
struggle vainly with languor and heaviness ; his eyelids 
were half closed, his cheeks and lips colorless, his whole 
form wasted away. My wife came to me, and embraced 
me ; but Maurice noticed me not for many minutes. He 
looked up at me then, and, rising from the ground, walk- 
ed towards me. I dreaded lest my mournful appearance 
should affright him ; and I stood breathless with my fears. 
He surveyed me from head to foot, and came close to me, 
and looked up with pleased curiosity in my face, and then 
whistled as he walked back to his toys — whistled so loudly, 
that the shrill sound seemed to pierce through my brain ! 

Sunday, August 20th. 
I have just returned from divine service in the chapel 
attached to my house. While the chaplain was reading 
the Psalms, Maurice walked softly down the aisle, and en- 
tered my pew. He stood before me with his eyes fixed on 
my face. Whenever I raised my eyes, I met that fixed but 
vacant gaze. My heart melted within me, and I felt tears 
rush into my eyes — his sweet, but vacant look must often 
be present with me — it seemed to appeal to me ; it seemed 
to ask for my prayers. Sinner as I am, I dared to think so. 
It must be, to all, an affecting sight to see an idiot in the 
house of God. It must be a rebuke to hardened hearts, 
to hearts too cold and careless to worship there ; it must 
be a rebuke to know that one heart is not unwilling, but 
unable to pray. Bitterly I felt this as I looked upon my 
child. He stood before me a rebuke to all the coldness 
and carelessness which had ever mingled with my prayers. 
His vacant features seemed to say, " You have a mind 
whose powers are not confused ; you have a heart to feel, 
to pray, to praise, and to bless God. The means of grace 
are daily given to you ; the hopes of glory are daily visible 
to you," O God! my child stood before me as a more 



A SCENE ON THE PONT NEUF. 251 

awful rebuke — as a rebuke sent from thee. Did not his 
vacant look say also, " Look upon the wreck which your 
dreadful passions have made? Think upon what I was? 
Think upon what I am ? " With a broken heart, I listen- 
ed to the words of life ; for, while I listened, my poor idiot 
child leaned upon me, and seemed to listen too. When I 
bowed my head at the name of Jesus, the poor boy bowed 
his. They all knelt down ; but, just then, I was lost in the 
thoughtfulness of my despair : my son clasped my hand ; 
and, when I looked round, I perceived that we alone were 
standing in the midst of the congregation. He looked me 
earnestly in the face ; and, kneeling down, he tried to pull 
me to kneel beside him. He seemed to invite me to pray 
for him. I did fall on my knees to pray for him and for 
myself; and I rose up, hoping that, for my Saviour's sake, 
my prayers were heard, and trusting that our heavenly 
Father feedeth my helpless child with spiritual food that 
we know not of 

London Magazine. 



A SCENE ON THE PONT NEUF. 

If the French do not follow, in all respects, the pre- 
cepts of the gospel, at least it must be confessed that they 
pay due regard to the apostle's injunction, " Weep with 
those that weep, and rejoice with those that rejoice." I 
have seen a thousand instances of this disposition ; but I 
do not know that I ever witnessed one with more pleasure 
than that which I am about to relate. 

I was crossing the Pont Neuf at the moment when a 
porter, belonging to the Bank of France, tired of the 
weight he carried (it was a bag containing nine thousand 
francs in silver), stopped to rest himself by leaning against 



252 A SCENE ON THE PONT NEUF. 

the parapet wall of the bridge ; but, at the moment that he 
did so, his valuable load, either from awkwardness or 
carelessness, slipped out of his hands, and fell into the 
Seine, which is very deep just in that spot. 

Never shall I forget his look of despair. He made a 
movement to jump over, and, I believe, would have effect- 
ed his purpose, but for the presence of mind of a girl, a 
little delicate-looking thing, about sixteen, a violet seller, 
who, clasping her arms around him, cried for help, which 
in an instant was afforded. Myself and some others seiz- 
ed him: he struggled with us desperately. ** Let me go!" 
cried he ; *' I am ruined forever ! My wife, my children, 
what will become of you ? " A multitude of voices were 
raised at once, some to console, others to inquire ; but 
above the rest were heard the clear and silver tones of the 
little violet girl — " My friend, have patience, you have lost 
nothing." 

" Nothing ! Oh, heavens ! " 

" No, no ; I tell you, no. Let some one run for the 
divers : there is no doubt that they will succeed in bring- 
ing it up." 

" She is right," resounded from a number of voices, 
and from mine among the rest ; and in an instant half a 
dozen people ran to fetch the divers. Those who remain- 
ed exerted themselves, each in his way, for the solace of 
the poor porter. One brought him a small glass of liqueur; 
another a little brandy, and a third some eau de Cologne. 
The little violet girl had been before all the rest in admin- 
istering a cordial, — and perhaps hers was the most effica- 
cious, — a glass of pure water, which she held to his trem- 
bling lips, and made him swallow. "Drink," cried she, 
"drink it up; it will do you good." Whether it was the 
water, or the kind and sympathetic manner with which it 
was offered, that relieved him, I know not ; but certainly 
one of the two had its effect, for his looks grew less wild, 
and he became composed enough to make his acknowl- 



A SCENE ON THE PONT NEUF. 253 

edgments to the humane spectators, who had shown such 
interest in his misfortune. 

The divers soon came; and one of them descended with- 
out loss of time. Never did I witness such an intense 
anxiety as the search excited : if the fate of every one 
present had hung on the success, they could not have tes- 
tified greater interest in it. Soon he reappeared, bringing 
up, not the bag of silver, but a small iron box. It was in- 
stantly broken open, and found to be full of twenty-franc 
pieces in gold: they were soon counted, and found to 
amount to nearly twelve thousand francs (about four hun- 
dred and fifty pounds sterling). 

There were three divers, who, overjoyed at their good 
fortune, speedily divided the prize among themselves ; and, 
directly afterwards, another descended in search of the 
porter's bag. This time he returned with it in triumph. 
The poor fellow could scarcely speak when they put it in- 
to his hands. On coming to himself, he cried with vehe- 
mence, " God reward you : you know not the good you 
have done. I am the father of five children. I was for- 
merly in good circumstances; but a series of misfortunes 
reduced me to the greatest distress. All that I had left 
was an irreproachable character, and that procured me 
my present situation. I have had it but a week. To-day 
I should, without your help, have lost it. My wife, my 
children would have been exposed to all the horrors of 
want: they would have been deprived of a husband and a 
father ; for never, no, never, could I have survived the ruin 
I had brought upon them! It is you who have saved us all. 
God will reward you — he alone can. While he thus spoke, 
\\e rummaged in his pocket, and drew out some francs. 
"This is all I have; 'tis very little; but tell me where you 
live, and to-morrow — " "Not a farthing," interrupted 
they with one voice ; and one of them added, " Stop a bit; 
let me talk to my comrades." They stepped aside for a 
moment ; I followed them with my eyes, and saw, by their 
22 



254 A aCENE ON THE PONT NEUF. 

gestures, that they listened to their companion with emo- 
tion. " We are all of a mind," said he, returning with 
them. " Yes, my friend, if we have been serviceable to 
you, you also have been the cause of our good fortune : 
it seems to me, then, that we ought to share with you what 
God has sent to us through your means. My companions 
think so too ; and we are going to divide it into four equal 
parts." 

The porter would have remonstrated, but his voice was 
drowned by the acclamations of the spectators. ** Gen- 
erous fellows ! " " Much good may it do you ! " *' The 
same luck to you many more times ! " resounded from 
every mouth. There was not one present but seemed 
as happy as if he or she were about to participate in the 
contents of the box. 

The money was divided, and, in spite of his excuses, 
the porter was forced to take his share. The generous 
divers went their way ; the crowd began to disperse ; but 
the porter still lingered, and I had the curiosity to remain 
in order to watch his motions. He approached the little 
violet girl. " Ah ! my dear," cried he, " what do I not 
owe you ! But for you, it had been all lost with me. My 
wife, my little ones must thank you." 

" Ma foi! * it is not worth mentioning. Would you 
have me stand by and see you drown yourself? " 

"But your courage, your strength ! could one have ex- 
pected it from so young a girl ? " 

"Ah! there is no want of strength wherever there is 
good will." 

" And nobody ever had more of that. Give me six 
of your bouauets, my dear ; my children are so fond of 
violets — and never have they prized any as well as they 
will these." 

She twisted a bit of thread round six of her fairy nose- 

* My faith. 



LACY DE VERE. 255 

gays, and presented them to him. He deposited them 
carefully in his bosom, and slipped something into her 
hand ; then, without waiting to hear the acknowledg- 
ments which she began to pour forth, took to his heels as 
if his bag had been made of feathers. 

The girl looked after him with pleasure dancing in her 
eyes. " What will you take for the rest of your nose- 
gays?" said I, going up to her. '^Whatever you are 
pleased to give," cried she with vivacity ; " for that good 
man's money will burn my purse till I get home to give it 
to my mother. O how glad she will be to have all that, 
and still more when she knows why it has been given to 
me!" The reader will easily believe that my purchase 
was speedily made : the good girl's purse was something 
the heavier for it, and I had the pleasure of thinking that 
I contributed, in a small degree, to reward the goodness 
of heart she had so unequivocally displayed. She hasten- 
ed home with her little treasure, and I returned to my 
lodgings to put my violets into water, promising myself, as 
I did so, to be a frequent customer to the little nosegay 
girl of the Pont Neuf. 

London Repository of Arts. 



LACY DE VERE. 



The founder of the family of the De Veres came over 
with the first William, but not as an adventurer, allured 
by the prospect of gain and the hope of acquiring titular 
distinction ; for the insignia of knighthood had already 
been bestowed upon him in his own land. When, how- 
ever, the Conquest rendered it alike the duty and policy 
of William to attach his Norman followers to his person, 
Rupert de Vere was one of the first who received solid 



256 LACY DB YERE. 

proofs of that monarch's favor. Generation followed gene- 
ration ; king after king succeeded to the throne ; centu- 
ries of change, romance, and tragedy, fulfilled their che- 
quered fate ; and in the historv of all, the De Veres were 
eminently conspicuous. 

" But Time, that lifts the low, 
And level lays the lofty brow," 

began, at length, to exercise an evil influence on the 
fortunes of the house ; and towards the middle of the fif- 
teenth century, Hugh, the then Baron de Vere, had little 
to transmit to his children beyond the name and noble 
nature of his ancestors. Instead of the broad manors and 
princely dwellings once connected with the title, he found 
himself reduced to a single castle, situated on the sea- 
coast in the north of England ; one that, in the proud 
days of the family, had been erected as a mere hold for 
the protection of the northern vassals from the incursions 
of the Scottish borderers. At the period in question, the 
wars of the Roses — those suicidal wars of the same peo- 
ple — were at their height. Every county became, in turn, 
a field of battle, till the whole kingdom was saturated 
with the blood of its inhabitants. The ties of neighbor- 
hood, even of kindred, were dissolved. Inhabitants of the 
same village, members of one household, separated only 
to meet again in hatred and blood-thirstiness — only to re- 
unite in the fierce onset of battle — neighbors as strangers, 
friends as rivals, children of one mother as sworn foes ! 

Though it was in consequence of these wars that the 
family of the De Veres became extinct, from one sorrow, 
and one disgrace, they were free — they neither espoused 
the cause of rebellion, nor were they divided amongst them- 
selves. At the first raising of King Henry's standard, the 
old baron braced on his armor; and if, owing to the 
changed fortunes of his house, many went forth to the 
service of that monarch with a larger train of vassals, not 



Lacy de vere. 259 

one, whether prince or knight, could compete with Hugh 
de Vere in the value of his offering. He brought six 
brave sons, devoted to him and to each other — the pillars 
of his house, the guardians of his age. Even the young- 
est, the fair stripling Lacy, girt with the sword which his 
father, when himself a youth, had wielded at Agincourt 
— he, too, was there, stately in step, and bold of heart as 
the mailed man of a hundred battles. 

That was neither a time nor a court calculated to en- 
courage tenderness of heart ; and she, the guiding spirit 
of both, was little subject to its influence ; yet, as the bar- 
on presented his sons, each after each according to his 
age, an expression of sorrow passed, for an instant, over 
the countenance of Queen Margaret, when Lacy stepped 
from the circle and kneeled down. " Nay, nay, my 
lord," said she, hastily, ** leave the boy behind ; why 
expose a life that can benefit neither friend nor foe 1 
Rise, rise, poor child ; what canst thou do for us ? " "I 
can DIE ! " said the noble boy, w^ith a passionate enthu- 
siasm, that thrilled his father's heart with mingled 
pride and sorrow. " Well said ! " replied the queen, 
fixing her cold, proud eye on Lacy's countenance, yet 
glowing with emotion. He understood its meaning, and 
returned the searching glance with something like an ex- 
pression of indignant defiance. " I perceive he is a De 
Vere," said the queen, turning to the old baron, for whom 
the compliment and its accompanying smile were intended. 
" But where is poor Blanche ? " continued she, again ad- 
dressing Lacy : ** if thou hast left her in the north, she, 
too, may need a knight's protection : thou art a brave 
spirit ; but dost thou well to leave her in charge of hire- 
lings 1 For her sake — for thine own — peril not thy youth 
in our cause. Lord Hugh, command him back to thy 
castle : if Warwick keep court in the north, he may 
chance to see fighting even there." This was no common 
strain with Margaret of Anjou ; but her own princely boy, 
22* 



S58 LACY DE VERE. 

the magnanimous, ill-fated Edward, stood beside her, and 
the woman and the mother triumphed, for an instant, over 
the imperious and dark-minded queen. " Craving your 
grace's favor," said Lacy, in a determined tone, before 
his father had time to reply, *' were Blanche my wife, in- 
stead of my sister, I would neither live nor die like a bird 
in a cage : when the arrow finds me," — and the boy pointed 
as he spoke to his device, a falcon in full flight, — " it shall 
be thus^ free and fearless." 

No further expostulation or entreaty was attempted. 
Lacy accompanied his father and brothers; and ere time 
had written manhood on his brow, he had borne his part 
in many a well-fought field. The various changes in the 
royal fortune are, however, too well known to require enu- 
meration here; indeed, except as connected with the for- 
tunes of Lacy de Vere, they are irrelevant. On him and 
his they told so soon and so fatally, that, at the period to 
which this legend is supposed to refer, he was no longer 
the fair stripling who had vowed to die before he well 
knew the nature of death. The years that had elapsed 
since then were, it is true, few in number ; but they had 
been years of strife and storm, crowded with fearful alter- 
nations of victory and defeat, flight and pursuit, alike 
grievous and unavailing. The great struggle was yet un- 
decided. Lacy de Vere was still a youthful warrior ; but, 
oh, how changed, how care-worn ! The bloom had forsa- 
ken his cheek ; buoyancy had left his spirit ; prompt in 
fight, and cool in council, he played his part in the despe- 
rate game like one to whom life and death, success and 
failure, were alike uncertain and indifferent. And to him 
all things else were changed. He no longer rode forth 
encouraged by the presence of his father and five brave 
brothers ; one by one that Httle company was cut off; each 
after each, in the order of birth, fell by his side ; and 
he, the youngest of his father's house, became its 
head — the sole heir of a race of heroes, the last Baron 
de Vere. 



LACY DE VERE. 25^ 

It was the battle of Towton which invested Lacy with 
these melancholy honors, and rendered him at the same 
time a fugitive ; for that battle, so sanguinary in itself, 
was fatal to the queen and her adherents. Stung to mad- 
ness by the death of his last surviving brother, and the 
utter ruin of that cause in defence of which all that was 
dear to him had perished, the words of Margaret, the tears 
of Blanche, rushed upon his memory ; that tie of kindred, 
which he had once so lightly esteemed, now that it was 
the only one remaining, assumed its rightful sway over 
his wounded spirit. He found that the relative love 
which God had planted in the human heart, however it 
may be outraged for a time by stoicism, by worldly wis- 
dom, or worldly glory, will return to the proudest bosom 
in the dark day of adversity. Lacy de Vere, who once, 
in the delirium of martial pride, scorned his home, and 
deserted her, who, as the offspring of the same birth, was 
bound to him by a more than common sisterhood, now 
flung down the insignia of his rank and bearing, and fled 
from the field of battle. True to that instinct which gov- 
erns all men in their misfortunes, he fled towards his 
long-deserted home ; and he found it, as his fears had well 
predicted, desolate and in ruins. One horrible peculiari- 
ty in the present contest was the license assumed by both 
parties to devastate Avhatever part of the country they 
passed through, whether hostile or friendly to their inter- 
ests. Even those engaged in the same cause were not al- 
ways safe from each other : many an old feud was aveng- 
ed, many a rival removed, or his property destroyed, ap- 
parently by some excess on the part of the troops, but 
frequently at the command of their more interested 
leaders. The devastation which had been wrought in 
the present instance, seemed more than the result of de- 
stroyers animated by merely general motives ; there ap- 
peared to have been a guiding spirit at work. There did 
not remain sufficient building to shelter a beggar from the 



260 LACY DE VERE. 

Storm : not a tree, not a shrub, but was either cut down or 
mutilated ; the grass and corn had been consumed with fire 
as they stood ; even the paltry hovels which had sheltered 
the domestic laborers were levelled with the earth : all 
was destroyed, without distinction or remorse — destroyed 
in the spirit of hatred. 

Lacy de Vere walked round the remains of this the last 
hold of his race; and, in the anguish of a noble spirit 
brought low by self-reproach, he rejoiced that his father 
and brothers were in the grave. But when he reached a 
spot which had once been a little herb-garden walled 
round, now open on all sides, and choked with the drifted 
sea sand, rage and grief overcame him — he could no lon- 
ger refrain from the expression of his inward emotions. 
" Yes," said he, with a bitter smile, " yes, an enemy hath 
done this ; but no enemy of King Henry and his cause : 
it was no Robin of Redsdale with his marauders ; no vin- 
dictive Warwick ; no savage borderers ; it was my enemy, 
the enemy of my house : Lionel Wethamstede, thou didst 
this evil ! Assassin serpent, twice I spared thee in battle, 
and twice didst thou ride off bidding me seek my flourish- 
ing home and fair sister ! — Blind, blind fool, to cherish a 
tiger till it longed for its keeper's blood ! Lionel, Lionel 
Wethamstede," continued the speaker more vehemently, 
while his whole frame was tremulous with passion, " didst 
thou slaughter the lamb in the fold 1 was the bird crushed 
with the nest 1 Oh, Lionel, if thou didst spare Blanche 
in the day of destruction, all, all, were thy sins thousand- 
fold, shall be forgiven ! If Blanche lives — if thou hast 
spared her — I, even I, thine enemy, will bless thee ! " 

Lacy was too much engrossed by his own emotions to 
be aware that he was watched, or even observed, by a boy 
couched amongst the rubbish. At the first glance, the 
intruder appeared nothing more than a young peasant, 
worn with fright and famine ; but, upon a second view, 
his attire, coarse as it was, could not disguise the natural 



LACY DE VERE. 261 

grace of the wearer; nor even the dark cloth bonnet, 
though of the kind only worn by menials, give a sordid 
expression to the noble countenance which it shaded. 
Hitherto he had remained perfectly quiet, eyeing Lacy 
with mingled anxiety and interest ; but when the last 
words of the young knight's passionate invocation died 
upon the air, he rose from his hiding-place with a slow 
and stately step, and addressed him in a tone that struck 
like the east wind to the listener's heart — a tone of re- 
proach, if aught so sweet could be said to convey reproach, 
of affection and deep sorrow. *' And where wert thou, 
Lacy de Vere, when the spoiler stole upon thy heritage ? 
Where was thy care when she for whom thou mournest 
prayed thee, by that mystery of love which unites those 
born in the same hour, to stay and shield her from treach- 
ery and violence 1 And didst thou spare Lionel Wetham 
stede 1 Look to it ; for, of a truth, in the day of his pow- 
er, not so will he spare thee : look to it ; for he hath vowed 
vengeance against all who bear thy name, and all who 
call thee master; but few, {ew are those. He hath begun 
his work well ; think ye not he will finish ? When thou 
wert young, thou hatedst him ; for the lying lip and craven 
spirit are hateful to the brave and true. But he saw it — 
he withered in the scornful glances of thy dark eye — and 
he swore to have vengeance — slow, secret, but sure ven- 
geance, on thee and thine ! " " He hath it, he hath it 1 " 
groaned Lacy ; '' he hath it, to the last drop of bitterness." 
*' He hath it not,'^ resumed the boy, solemnly. " Dost 
not thou, the offender, live ? and she who spurned 
him as a reptile when he proffered her safety — and 
his hand ? Look to it, last of a lordly race ; spare 
him not the third time. He hath laid thy dwelling in the 
dust : those who were hirelings he corrupted ; those who 
were faithful he slew ; and she, who was born to mate 
with princes, fled for her life to the dark and noisome 
cavern of the rock. Yet is the work of vengeance in- 



262 LACY DE VERE. 

complete. Weep on, Lacy de Vere," continued the mys- 
terious speaker, after a pause, only interrupted by the bar- 
on's convulsive sobs; "though thou art a v^^arrior, weep 
on — what knowest thou o^ grief? It hath come to thee 
in its royal robes, amid sounding trumpets, and gorgeous 
banners, and the shout of victory, and the presence of 
mighty warriors ; — but grief hath come to me in lowlier 
guise — in darkness, and cold, and neglect, and hunger, 
and sickness of heart, and loneliness as of the grave ; 
and I shall weep no more, unless perchance for thee ! " 
" Curse, curse me, Blanche ! " said Lacy, vehemently ; 
for his heart told him that she herself was by his side. 
** I can bear all things, now I have found thee ; " and say- 
ing this, he drew her to his bosom, and wept over her like 
a child. 

Love is a child, that speaks in broken words. It is easy 
to conceive of the self-reproaches uttered by Lacy, and the 
sweet forgiveness and consolation spoken by Blanche ; 
of the anxious question and fond reply; their mutual 
mourning over the past, and mutual cares for the future, 
both softened by the reflection, that, come weal, come wo, 
the bond of affection would never more be divided. 
There needed neither vow nor witness ; yet there, amid 
the ruins of that home which had sheltered them through- 
out a happy childhood, on the hearth-stone round which, for 
centuries, their ancestors had gathered, the twins, the last 
of their race, knelt down and vowed to separate no more, 
but to have, living or dying, one fate, one home, one 
grave ; and they called upon the spirits of their father and 
brethren, whose bones lay bleaching on many a field of 
battle, to witness and sanctify the vow. They arose 
homeless and friendless — nevertheless they arose comfort- 
ed ; for that love which neither change nor sorrow can 
lastingly imbitter or absorb, again triumphed in the soul 
of each. 

The refuge which Blanche had found for herself, on the 



LACY DE VERE. 263 

destruction of her home, and the death or flight of those 
left to guard it, was too fearful a spot to have been select- 
ed by one less courageous, or under circumstances less 
appalling. A line of rock extended along the sea-shore 
for about the space of half a mile, gradually rising from 
one extremity, and as gradually declining to the other. 
It appeared one vast parapet, a continued range of stone 
battlements, erected by nature — at once to overlook and 
brave the ocean beneath. The front was as completely 
perpendicular as if hewn by the hammer and the chisel, 
while lichens, mosses, ivy — every variety of graceful 
creeping shrub — overspread its surface, as though trained 
there by the hand of man. It was wonderful to view what 
seemed a gigantic wall of cold hard stone, thus magnifi- 
cently embroidered with the foliage of earth, while here 
and there masses of the hoary, weather-stained rock show- 
ed like ruined castles amid the clinging '' greenery." 
Nearly at the summit of the highest point, inaccessible, 
as it would seem, except to the sea-bird and the goat, 
was a natural arch, scooped out of the rock, and opening 
into a cavern. The ivy spread around that arch with pecu- 
liar beauty ; adjacent parts of the rock brightened in the 
beams of morning, or in the moonlight; but that cav- 
ern always retained the same aspect — dark, noisome, un- 
earthly. This was Blanche's refuge — the dwelling-place 
of her who had been delicately reared, as befitted the only 
daughter of a noble house. Lacy was mute with surprise 
and terror when he first saw her ascend what appeared to 
him as inaccessible to the foot as any castle wall. There 
were, however, though he perceived them not, inequalities 
on the surface ; and, now clinging to a bush, now grasp- 
ing a root of ivy, her nailed peasant's shoes tinkling, at 
every step, against the stony path, — her slight figure al- 
ternately hidden and revealed amongst the shrubs, — 
Blanche, to whom habit had familiarized the perilous as- 
cent, reached the cavern ; but, as she stood in the dark 



264 LACY DE VERE. 

entrance, the moonlight glimmering on her countenance, 
and her voice coming down from that vast height, a mere 
"filament of sound," Lacy could have believed her a 
creature of another world and species. 

She was not, however, companionless in this her aerial 
home : the goats often repaired thither to rest ; the sea- 
bird there deposited her eggs ; and to them had she fre- 
quently been indebted for sustenance when the rock and 
the shore failed to afford their natural tribute of berries 
and shell-fish. Necessity, that teacher sterner and more 
efficient even than duty, soon accustomed Lacy to that 
difficult ascent and rude hiding-place. He had been too 
familiar with hardship and sorrow to mourn over outward 
privations ; and, ere long, he loved that " dim retreat," 
hallowed as it was by repose and safety, and cheered by 
the presence of her who was not only his sister, but his 
best and only friend. 

" His garb was humble ; ne'er was seen 
Such garb with such a noble mien : 
Among the shepherd-grooms no mate 
Had he, a child of strength and state. 
Yet lacked not friends for solemn glee, 
And a cheerful company, 
That learned of him submissive ways, 
And comforted his private days. 
To his side the fallow-deer 
Came and rested without fear ; 
The eagle, lord of land and sea, 
Stooped down to pay him fealty." 

Wordsworth. 

The desires which once consumed his spirit were extin- 
guished ; the vain strife and yet vainer joys and ambitions 
of the world no longer occupied his mind. '' Revenge 
and all ferocious thoughts were dead : " he could remem- 
ber his enemies, ay, even Lionel Wethamstede, in peace ; 
and when he walked among the neighboring herdsmen, 
lowlier in lot than themselves, or stood in the opening of 
his mountain-hold, and looked on the ocean roaring be- 



LACY DL VERE. 265 

neath, or the host of heaven shining quietly above, Lacy 
de Vere forgot the past, and, calling his sister to his side, 
pronounced himself a happy man. 

But this retreat, this respite from misfortune, was not 
destined to remain long unmolested. The battle of Tow- 
ton had, it is true, placed Edward, Duke of York, on the 
throne, and wholly destroyed or scattered the adherents 
of dueen Ptiargaret ; but that remorseless prince, deeming 
his power only to be secured by continued bloodshed, 
still allowed his followers to ravage the north, as having 
been the stronghold of the Lancastrian cause. Among 
the most active in this murderous employment was Lionel 
Wethamstede. He knew that Lacy de Vere yet lived, 
concealed, as he had reason to suspect, in the neighbor- 
hood of his former dwelling. Except as affording means 
of gaining fortune and distinction, the cause of King 
Edward or Q,ueen Margaret were alike indifferent to him. 
It was personal hatred which induced him to hunt out the 
Lancastrians with such relentless zeal — the desire to dis- 
cover and exterminate the last of that family, whose pro- 
tection he had so long enjoyed and cruelly requited. Du- 
ring childhood and youth, he had been a favorite with the 
old Baron de Vere, and, as such, allowed to be an inmate 
of the castle : before him he had masked, under the 
show of humility and devoted zeal, the designing, treach- 
erous spirit, which crouches that it may the more se- 
curely spring upon its prey, and lays in servile submis- 
sion the foundation of despotic power. The young Lacy, 
bold and open as became his birth, instinctively scorned 
the minion, even before he discovered how well that scorn 
w^as merited. Many a proud glance and bitter taunt were 
bestowed by the fearless youth, little dreaming that of all 
such, however unnoticed at the time, Lionel kept a too 
faithful record, and would one day claim for them a dead- 
ly recompense. And now that day was near at hand. 
Hatred, once formed in the heart, turns neither to- 
23 



266 LACY DE VERE. 

the right hand nor to the left till its work is done. Love, 
even the love of a mother for her babe, may be diverted — 
grief, though of a father for his dead first-born, be forgot- 
ten — gratitude may pass like the morning dew, and pity 
as a noon-day cloud — Hatred alone can survive all 
change, all time, all circumstance, all other emotions ; nay, 
it can survive the accomplishment of revenge, and, like 
the vampire, prey on its dead victim 1 

" I know not," said Lacy, as he and Blanche stood to- 
gether, one evening in the archway of their cavern — '* I 
know not why, when all around me is so fair, sadness and 
forebodings of coming evil should hang so heavily on my 
heart." " Nay, nay, dear Lacy," replied Blanche ; " look 
at our castle, which will resist both fire and violence ; our 
faithful rock, with all its luxuriant garniture flashing in 
the light of that departing sun : what should we fear 1 
Art thou weary of repose. Lacy ? or dost thou mistrust 
thy warder 1 " continued she, with affectionate playfulness, 
at the same instant placing her arm within his. But the 
cloud passed not from her brother's brow, and he replied, 
in the low, broken voice men use when troubled in spirit, 
" I tell thee, Blanche — nay, count not my words idle, for an 
influence is on me which I can neither gainsay nor resist 
— I tell thee, evil hangs over us — my end is near. Tivice 
I spared Lionel Wethamstede ; and tidcc, since the last 
going down of yonder sun, have I beheld myself in his 
power. Oh ! it was a dark vision, a dream more fearful 
than a field of battle ! " '' Dreams, Lacy, visions ! — what 
of them 1 When I dwelt here alone, oh ! how often did I 
see thee prisoner — wounded — dying — dead ! I, too, had 
dreams and visions, and yet they came not true; why, 
then, should thine 1 " Lacy made no reply to this inqui- 
ry, for he heard it not ; and when he again spoke, his 
words were but the expression of the melancholy reverie 
into which he had fallen. " Yes, it was down there — 
stealing along the foot of the rock, half-hidden by the trees 



LACY DE VERE. 267 

and underwood, Lionel and his black band — six — black 
in spirit as in outward guise — not one ever known to 
strike twice or to spare — I knew them all — and why they 
came." '* Lacy ! — Baron de Vere ! " exclaimed Blanche, 
shaking his arm, which she held, with her utmost strength, 
"rouse from this unmanly mood; let the babe and the 
peasant start at shadows; but thou, I pray thee — let 
me not have to blush for him whom 1 ought to honor ! " 
" And for whom thou wilt ere long weep," replied Lacy, 
in an unaltered voice. *' Blanche de Vere, misjudge me 
not ! I spoke neither of flight, nor fear, nor supplication 
for life, nor of aught that may disgrace a warrior — I did 
but speak of Death — death, that were welcome if it came 
only to myself; but my sister, dearer than all the kindred I 
have lost, were all now living — my last, last friend death 
is on its way to thee too ! " " It will not be death, if 
shared with thee," replied Blanche, fervently ; " death 
Avould be to live when thou wert gone. I did thee wrong, 
noble, generous brother ! forgive it." And she sat down 
at his feet, and covered her face with her hands. " Glo- 
rious orb ! " said Lacy, after having for some minutes ear- 
nestly regarded the sun, which was now slowly descend- 
ing into the ocean with more than meridian pomp, " un- 
changed, unchangeable — bright at thy setting as on thy 
first rising — most glorious orb, farewell ! And thou too, 
earth, steeped in the tears and blood of thy children, pol- 
luted with crime, groaning with sorrow, yet withal so beau- 
teously appareled, many graves hast thou afforded my 
father's house : spare it yet another — the last : and now," 
said he, the steady, solemn tone in which he had hitherto 
spoken changing to one of indignant defiance, while a 
change as complete overspread his countenance, " now, 
even now, that grave is needed — the appointed hour is 
arrived — yonder the murderers come, black and silent as 
in the vision ; but the last De Vere dies not like a reptile 
driven into its hold and crushed in darkness ; the doom 



268 LACY DE VERB. 

that is decreed shall be met. Rise, Blanche ! sister by 
birth, companion in sorrow, daughter of heroes, arise, and 
let us descend ! let not Lionel have to glory in our shame ! — 
haste ! — haste ! I see his black plume waving to and fro — 
his spear glitters through the trees — nearer — brighter every 
instant." ** I am ready, ready to endure all," said Blanche, 
firmly ; " but, oh! let not Lionel see our parting anguish : 
bless me for the last time here ! " and she laid her head 
upon her brother's bosom. They stood regarding each 
other, speechless and in tears : to part was harder than 
to die. 

Lacy's vision and forebodings were indeed on the point 
of being realized. The implacable Lionel had learned 
but too surely their place of retreat, and but too truly was 
he, with his ruffians, winding along the foot of the rock ; 
even now they were within view of the cavern, in the 
opening of which stood that devoted pair, whose doom was 
sealed before they knew it. A shout of brutal triumph 
suddenly burst from Lionel and his band, as they halted 
when sufficiently near the spot : at the same instant two 
picked archers obeyed their leader's command with mur- 
derous precision, and ere the defenceless victims could 
look round or utter a cry, the arrows pierced them, clasped 
as they were in each other's arms ! One of the shafts 
had entered Lacy's heart, and in the twinkling of an eye, 
without word or groan, he was numbered with the dead. 
For an instant, a single instant, his dying eyes were turn- 
ed upon his fellow-victim ; and that glance, though tran- 
sient as the flash of lightning, revealed love stronger than 
death, love that would exist beyond the grave. The 
wound received by Blanche, though mortal, was not cal- 
culated to occasion instant death ; and nobly did she em- 
ploy the precious respite. 

" My brother shall not become a prey to the birds of 
the air," were her first words, on perceiving that he was 
indeed dead ; and, with an energy scarcely human, she 



LACY DE VERE. 269 

prepared for her labor of love. Habit had, it is true, ren- 
dered the ascent and descent of that rock so easy, that, in 
the darkest night, she would scarcely have missed her 
footing ; but, wounded as she was at present, her intention 
to descend, and convey with her Lacy's yet warm and 
bleeding body, appeared impracticable. Love, however, 
enabled her to execute what love had induced her to de- 
termine. Carefully wrapping the corse in every garment 
she could afford from herself, to defend it in some measure 
from the sharp points of the rock, she partly drew and 
partly bore the precious burden down a pathway, which, 
to any but herself, would, under such circumstances, havf» 
assuredly been fatal. She felt neither fatigue nor pain ; 
she heeded not that every shrub and stone in the descent 
was sprinkled with her own blood ; her sole care was to 
shield the senseless body in her arms from wounds and 
injury. Heaven, in pity, strengthened her for the task, 
and she reached the ground in safety — her labor accom- 
plished, her reward obtained. Those who had come out 
against the noble pair gathered around them in silence, 
some, in truth, touched by this last exhibition of love, pass- 
ing even the love of women. She unfolded the coverings 
from the body, which was now becoming cold and stiff; 
then, looking upon the armed circle, she fixed her eye 
on him, the evil spirit whose ministers they were, and 
addressed him like one gifted with unearthly authority. 
" Lionel, thy work is finished ! thou wert the nursling of 
our house, and hast become its destroyer ! thou hast 
rendered bitter for sweet, and evil for good, and in- 
juries for benefits ! thou hast brought low the old, the hon- 
orable, the young, the brave, the virtuous, and hitherto 
none hath stayed thy hand : but come near, Lionel We- 
thamstede, and I will advise thee of things that shall befall 
thee yet. By day thou shalt dread treachery, and by night 
dream visions of horror ; thou shalt flee when none pur- 
23* 



270 LACY DE VERB. 

sue, and be afraid when no fear is : thou hast built thy 
fortunes in thy master's blood ; some around thee shall 
build theirs in thine ; as thou hast hated so shall others 
hate thee : scorn, and sorrow, and affliction, and want, 
— every evil thou hast wrought on us, — shall cleave four- 
fold and forever to thee and thine — yea, cleave as the flesh 
cleaveth to the bone. Ay, go thy way, man of blood ! brace 
thy helmet and mount thy steed. Thou mayest escape me 
noio ; but I shall see thee again, where neither horse nor 
armor will avail thee — before God, who will condemn the 
murderer in the face of heaven, in the day of judgment. 
Lionel Wethamstede, thou shalt meet me tliereP 

She ceased. The livid paleness and the damps of death 
had gradually gathered on her countenance : every sen- 
tence had been uttered in mortal anguish : nevertheless, 
she had maintained, throughout, the cold, calm bearing of 
one already separated from the body. The wretch to 
whom her words had been addressed shivered under their 
influence, as though exposed to an ice-blast ; superstitious 
horror mastered the ferocious spirit till then scarcely satis- 
fied with its revenge : and, setting spurs to his horse, he 
departed from the spot like one pursued by an evil spirit. 
*' Let those who shot the arrows complete their work ! " 
said the dying maiden to the men, who remained fixed to 
the spot, subdued as by some supernatural agency, and 
scarcely conscious of their leader's departure — " let them 
wrap us in one shroud, and bury us in the same grave ! " 
One of the archers stepped forward : he was rude, even 
savage in his exterior, but nature was not utterly extinct : 
he kneeled down beside the dying and the dead, and 
swore to observe the request. " Thy victim blesses thee," 
replied Blanche ; " farewell ! " She spoke no more, for 
death claimed his conquest. She stretched herself on the 
ground beside him whom in life she had loved so well, 
whom dying she could not forget : placing one arm be- 



CALUM DHU. 271 

neath his head, and the other across his bosom, so that her 
cheek rested against his, she meekly closed her eyes, like 
a wearied child that sleeps on its mother's lap. 

Thus died Lacy and Blanche de Vere, twins in birth, 
and twins also in the manner of their death. They slept 
not, as their fathers before them, in marble monuments 
adorned with stately devices ,• they were laid in the peas- 
ant's grave, beneath the green and trodden turf, with no 
record more lasting than its bright but perishable flowers. 
There was none to mourn over them, none to have them 
in remembrance, none to perpetuate their name : when 
they died, they died altogether ; and with them the mem- 
ory of a noble race passed forever from the earth. 

" So fails, so languishes, grows dim, and dies, 
All that this world is proud of." 

Forget me Not, for 1827. 



CALUM DHU;— A HIGHLAND TALE. 

Calum Dhu was the bravest warrior that followed the 
banners of the chief of Colquhoun, with which clan the 
powerful and warlike M'Gregors were at inveterate feud. 
Calum lived in a sequestered glen in the vicinity of Ben 
Lomond. His cottage stood at the base of a steep, ferny 
hill : retired from the rest of the clan, he lived alone. 
This solitary being was the deadliest foe of the M'Gregors, 
when the clans were in the red, unyielding battle of their 
mountain chiefs. His weapon was a bow, in the use of 
which he was so skilful, that he could bring down the 
smallest bird when on the wing. No man but himself 
had ever bent his bow : and his arrows were driven with 



272 CALUM DHU. 

such resistless force, that their feathery wings were always 
drenched with his foeman's best blood. In the use of the 
sword, also, he had few equals; but the bow was the 
weapon of his heart. 

The son of the chief of the M'Gregors, with two of his 
clansmen, having gone to hunt, and their game being wide, 
they wandered far, and found themselves, a little after mid- 
day, on the top of the hill at the foot of which stood Calum 
Dhu's cottage. "Come," said the young chief, " let us go 
down and try to bend Calum Dhu's bow. Evan, you and 
I have got the name of being the best bowmen of our clan : 
it is said no man but Calum himself can bend his bow; 
but it will go hard with us if we cannot show him that the 
M'Gregors are men of thews and sinews equal to the bend- 
ing of his long bow, with which he has so often sent his 
arrows through and through our best warriors, as if they 
had been men of straw set up to practise on. Come, he 
will not know us — and if he should, we are three to one; 
and I owe him something," added he, touching the hilt of 
his dirk, '* since the last conflict, when he sent an arrow 
through my uncle's gallant bosom. Come, follow me 
down ! " he continued, his eye gleaming with determined 
vengeance, and his voice quivering with suppressed pas- 
sion. The will of a Highland chieftain was law at the 
time of which we speak. " We will go down, if a score 
of his best clansmen were with him," said Evan. " Ay, 
but be cautious." ** We shall bend his bow, then break 
it," replied the young M'Gregor ; " and then — then for 
my uncle's blood." " He is good at the sword," said the 
third M'Gregor; "but this (showing his dirk) will stretch 
him on the sward." " Strike him not behind," said the 
young chief: " hew him down in front: he deserves hon- 
orable wounds, for he is brave, though an enemy." 

They had been concealed by a rising knoll from being 
seen from the cottage, which they now reached. Knock- 
ing loudly at the door, after some delay, they were answer- 



CALUM DHU. 273 

ed by the appearance of a little, thick-set, gray-eyeo, old- 
ish-looking man, with long arms and a black, bushy beard, 
hung with gray threads and thrums, as if he had been em- 
ployed in weaving the coarse linen of the country and the 
time. But as he had none of the muscular symptoms of 
prodigious strength which Calum Dhu was reported to 
possess, and which had often proved so fatal to their clan, 
they could not suppose this to be their redoubted foeman ; 
and, to the querulous question of what they wanted, utter- 
ed in the impatient tone of one who has been interrupted 
in some necessary worldly employment, they replied by 
inquiring if Calum Dhu was at home. " Na, he's gane to 
the fishing ; but an ye hae ony message frae our chief 
(Heaven guard him!) about the coming of the red 
M'Gregors, and will trust me with it, Calum will get it 
frae me. Ye may as well tell me as him ; he stays lang 
when he gaes out, for he is a keen fisher." *' We were 
only wanting to try the bending of his bow," said the dis- 
appointed young chief, "which we have heard no man 
can do save himself" " Hoo ! gin that is a', ye might 
hae tell'd it at first, an' no keepit me sae lang frae my 
loom," said the old man ; " but stop " — and giving his 
shoulders an impatient shrug, which, to a keen observer, 
would have passed for one of satisfaction, triumph, and 
determination, he went into the house, and quickly return- 
ed, bringing out a strong bow, and a sheaf of arrows, and 
flung them carelessly on the ground, saying, " Ye'll be for 
trying your strength at a flight?" pointing to the arrows; 
" I have seen Calum send an arrow over the highest point 
o' that hill, like a glance o' lightning ; and when the 
M'Gregors were coming raging up the glen, like red 
deevels as they are, mony o' their best warriors fell at the 
farthest entry o' the pass, every man o' them wi' a hole in 
his breast and its fellow at his back." 

He had taken a long arrow out of the sheaf, and stood 
playing with it in his hand while speaking, seemingly 



274 CALUM DHU. 

ready to give to the first man who should bend the bow. 
The M'Gregors were tall, muscular men, in the prime of 
youth and manhood. The young chief took up the bow, 
and, after examining its unbending strength, laying all his 
might to it, strained till the blood rushed to his face, and 
his temples throbbed almost to bursting — but in vain ; the 
string remained slack as ever. Evan and the other 
M'Gregor were alike unsuccessful ; they might as well 
have tried to root up the gnarled oaks of their native 
mountains. 

'' There is not a man," cried the young chief of 
M'Gregor, greatly chagrined at the absence of Calum 
Dhu, and his own and clansmen's vain attempts to 
bend the bow, — " there is not a man in your clan can 
bend that bow ; and if Calum Dhu were here, he should 
not long bend it ! " Here he bit his lip, and suppressed 
the rest of the sentence; for the third M'Gregor gave him 
a glance of caution. " Ha! " said the old man, still play- 
ing with the long arrow in his hand, and without seeming 
to observe the latter part of the M'Gregor's speech. '' If 
Calum was here, he would bend it as easily as ye wad 
bend that rush ; and gin ony o' the M'Gregors were in 
sight, he wad drive this lang arrow through them as easily 
as ye wad drive your dirk through my old plaid, and the 
feather wad come out at the other side, wet wi' their 
heart's bluid. Sometimes even the man behind is wound- 
ed, if they are ony way thick in their battle. I once saw 
a pair o' them stretched on the heather, pinned together 
with ane of Calum's lang arrows." 

This was spoken with the cool composure and simpli- 
city of one who is talking to friends, or is careless if they 
are foes. A looker-on could have discerned a chequered 
shade of pleasure and triumph cross his countenance, as 
M'Gregor's lip quivered, and the scowl of anger fell along 
his brow at the tale of his kinsmen's destruction by the 
arm of his most hated enemy. 



CALUM DHU. 275 

" He must be a brave warrior," said the young chief, 
compressing his breatli, and looking with anger and aston- 
ishment at the tenacious and cool old man. *' I should 
like to see this Calum Dhu." 

'' Ye may, soon enough ; an', gin ye were a M'Gregor, 
feel him too. But what is the man glunching and gloom- 
ing at ! Gin ye were Black John himsel, ye could na 
look mair deevilish-like. And what are you fidging at, 
man?" addressing the third M'Gregor, who had both 
marked and felt the anger of his young chief, and had 
slowly moved nearer the old man, and stood with his right 
hand below the left breast of his plaid, probably grasping 
his dirk, ready to execute the vengeance of his master, as 
it was displayed on his clouded countenance, which he 
closely watched. The faith of the Gael is deeper than 
"to hear is to obey" — the slavish obedience of the East : 
his is to anticipate and perform — to know and accomplish, 
or die. It is the sterner devotedness of the north. 

But the old man kept his keen gray eye fixed upon him, 
and continued, in the same unsuspecting tone : " But is 
there ony word o' the M'Gregors soon coming over the 
hills? Calum wad like to try a shot at Black John, their 
chief; he wonders gin he could pass an arrow through his 
great hardy bulk as readily as he sends them through his 
clansmen's silly bodies. John has a son, too, he wad like 
to try his craft on ; he has the name of a brave warrior — I 
forget his name. Calum likes to strive at noble game, 
though he is sometimes forced to kill that which is little 
worth. But I'm fearfu' that he o'errates his ain strength; 
his arrow will only, I think, stick weel through Black 

John, but " "Dotard, peace!" roared the young 

chief, till the glen rang again, his brow darkening like 
midnight; "peace! or I shall cut the sacrilegious tongue 
out of your head, and nail it to that door, to show Calum 
Dhu that you have had visitors since he went away, and 
bless his stars that he was not here." 



276 CALUM DHU. 

A dark flash of suspicion crossed his mind as he gazed 
at the cool old tormentor who stood before him, unquailing 
at his frowns ; but it vanished as the imperturbable old man 
said, *' Haoh ! ye're no a M'Gregor — and though ye were, 
ye surely wadna mind the like o' me ! But anent bending 
this bow," striking it with the long arrow, which he still 
held in his hand, ** there is just a knack in it; and your 
untaught young strength is useless, as ye dinna ken the 
gait o't. I learned it frae Calum, but I'm sworn never to 
tell it to a stranger. There is mony a man in the clan I 
ken naething about. But as ye seem anxious to see the 
bow bent, I'll no disappoint ye ; rin up to yon gray stane 
— stand there, and it will no be the same as if ye were 
standing near me when I'm doing it, but it will just be the 
same to you, for ye can see weel enough, and when the 
string is on the bow, ye may come down, an' ye like, an' 
try a flight; it's a capital bow, and that ye'll fin." 

A promise is sacred with the Gael ; and, as he was un- 
der one, they did not insist on his exhibiting his art while 
they were in his presence ; but, curious to see the sturdy 
bow bent, — a feat of which the best warrior of their clan 
would have been proud, and which they had in vain essay- 
ed, — and perhaps thinking Calum Dhu would arrive in the 
interval, — and as they feared nothing from the individual, 
who seemed ignorant of their name, and who could not 
be supposed to send an arrow so far with any effect, — they 
therefore walked away in the direction pointed out ; nor 
did they once turn their faces till they reached the gray 
rock. They now turned, and saw the old man (who had 
waited till they had gone the whole way) suddenly bend 
the stubborn yew, and fix an arrow on the string. In an 
instant it was strongly drawn to his very ear, and the 
feathered shaft, of a cloth-breadth length, was fiercely 
launched in air. 

" M'Alp — hooch!" cried the young chief, meaning to 



CALUM DHU. 



277 



raise the M'Gregor war-cry, clapping his hand on his 
breast as he fell. " Ha! " cried Calum Dhu, for it was he 
himself; ''clap your hand behin'; the arm shot that never 
sent arrow that came out where it went in;" — a rhyme he 
used in battle, when his fees fell as fast as he could fix 
arrows to the bow-string. The two M'Gregors hesitated 
a moment whether to rush down and cut to atoms the old 
man who had so suddenly caused the death of their belov- 
ed young chief; but seeing him fix another arrow to his 
bow, of which they had just seen the terrible effects, and 
fearing they might be prevented from carrying the news 
of his son's death to their old chieftain, and thus cheat 
him of his revenge, they started over the hill like roes. 
But a speedy messenger was after them ; an arrow caught 
Evan as he descended out of sight over the hill : sent with 
powerful and unerring aim, it transfixed him in the shoul- 
der. It must have grazed the bent that grew on the hill 
top, to catch him, as only his shoulders could be seen from 
where Calum Dhu stood. On flew the other M'Gregor 
with little abatement of speed till he reached his chieftain 
with the bloody tidings of his son's death. " Raise the 
clan ! " were Black John's first words ; " dearly shall they 
rue it." A party was soon gathered. Breathing all the 
vengeance of mountain warriors, they were soon far on 
their way of fierce retaliation, with Black John at their 
head. Calum Dhu was in the meantime not idle ; know- 
ing, from the escape of one of the three M'Gregors, that 
a battle must quickly ensue, he collected as many of his 
clansmen as he could, and, taking his terrible bow, which 
he could so bravely use, calmly waited the approach of the 
M'Gregors, who did not conceal their coming; for loud and 
fi.ercely their pipes flung their notes of war and defiance 
on the gale as they approached ; and mountain cliflf and 
glen echoed far and wide the martial strains. They ar- 
rived, and a desperate struggle immediately commenced. 
24 



278 CALUM DHU. 

The M'Gregors carried all before them : no warriors of 
this time could withstand the hurricane onset, sword in 
hand, of the far-feared, warlike M'Gregors. Black John 
raged through the field like a chafed lion, roaring in a 
voice of thunder, heard far above the clash, groans, and 
yells, of the unyielding combatants — " where was the mur- 
derer of his son 1 " None could tell him — none was af- 
forded time, for he cut down, in his headlong rage, every 
foe he met. At length, when but few of his foes remain- 
ed, on whom he could wreak his wrath, or exercise his 
great strength, he spied an old man sitting on a ferny 
bank, holding the stump of his leg, which had been cut 
off in the battle, and who beckoned the grim chief to 
come nearer. Black John rushed forward, brandishing 
his bloody sword, crying, in a voice which startled the yet 
remaining birds from the neighboring mountain cliffs — 
''where was his son's murderer!" "Shake the leg out 
o' that brogue," said the old man, speaking with difficulty, 
and squeezing his bleeding stump with both hands, with 
all the energy of pain, " and bring me some o' the water 
frae yon burn to drink, and I will show you Calum Dhu, 
for he is yet in the field, and lives : rin, for my heart burns 
and faints." Black John, without speaking, shook the 
leg out of the brogue, and hasted to bring water, to get 
the wished-for intelligence. Stooping to dip the bloody 
brogue in the little stream, " M' Alp — hooch! "he cried, 
and splashed lifeless in the water, which in a moment 
ran thick with his blood. ''Ha!" cried Calum Dhu, for 
it was he again; "clap your hand behin' ; that's the last 
arrow shot by the arm that sent those which came not out 
where they went in." 

London Weekly Review. 



HANNAH. 279 



HANNAH. 



The prettiest cottage on our village-green is the little 
dwelling of Dame Wilson. It stands in a corner of the 
common, wh6re the hedgerows go curving off into a sort 
of bay, round a clear, bright pond, the earliest haunt of the 
swallows. A deep, woody, green lane, such as Hobbima 
or Ruysdael might have painted — a lane that hints of 
nightingales — forms one boundary of the garden, and a 
sloping meadov;^ the other ; whilst the cottage itself, a low, 
thatched, irregular building, backed by a blooming or- 
chard, and covered with honeysuckle and jessamine, looks 
like the chosen abode of snugness and comfort. And 
so it is. 

Dame Wilson was a respected servant in a most respect- 
able family, where she passed all the early part of her life, 
and which she quitted only on her marriage with a man of 
character and industry, and of that peculiar universality of 
genius which forms what is called, in country phrase, a 
handy fellow. He could do any sort of work, was thatch- 
er, carpenter, bricklayer, painter, gardener, game-keeper, 
" every thing by turns, and nothing long." No job came 
amiss to him. He killed pigs, mended shoes, cleaned 
clocks, doctored cows, dogs, and horses, and even went 
as far as bleeding and drawing teeth in his experiments 
on the human subject. In addition to these multifarious 
talents, he was ready, obliging, and unfearing; jovial 
withal, and fond of good-fellowship ; and endowed with a 
promptness of resource which made him the general ad- 
viser of the stupid, the puzzled, and the timid. He was 
universally admitted to be the cleverest man in the parish ; 
and his death, which happened, about ten years ago, in 
consequence of standing in the water, drawing a pond for 
one neighbor, at a time when he was overheated by load- 



2S0 - HANNAH. 

ing hay for another, made quite a gap in our village com- 
monwealth. John Wilson had no rival, and has had no 
successor ; for the Robert Ellis, whom certain youngsters 
would fain exalt to a copartnery of fame, is simply nobody 
— a bell-ringer — a ballad-singer — a troller of profane catch- 
es — a fiddler — a bruiser — a loller on alehouse benches — a 
teller of good stories — a mimic — a poet ! What is all this 
to compare with the solid parts of John Wilson ? Whose 
clock hath Robert Ellis cleaned ? — whose windows hath 
he mended ? — whose dog hath he broken? — whose pigs 
hath he rung? — whose pond hath he fished ? — whose hay 
hath he saved ? — whose cow hath he cured ? — whose calf 
hath he killed? — whose teeth hath he drawn? — whom 
hath he bled ? Tell me that, irreverent whipsters ! No ! 
John Wilson is not to be replaced. He v/as missed by the 
whole parish; and, most of all, he was missed at home. 
His excellent wife was left the sole guardian and protector 
of two fatherless girls ; one an infant at her knee, the 
other a pretty, handy lass, about nine years old. Cast thus 
upon the world, there must have been much to endure, 
much to suffer ; but it was borne with a smiling patience, 
a hopeful cheeriness of spirit, and a decent pride, which 
seemed to command success as well as respect in their 
struggle for independence. Without assistance of any 
sort, by needle-work, by washing and mending lace and 
fine linen, and other skilful and profitable labors, and by 
the produce of her orchard and poultry. Dame Wilson 
contrived to maintain herself and her children in their old 
comfortable home. There was no visible change : she 
and the little girls were as neat as ever ; the house had still 
within and without the same sunshiny cleanliness, and the 
garden was still famous over all other gardens for its cloves, 
and stocks, and double wall-flowers. But the sweetest 
flower of the garden, the joy and pride of her mother's 
heart, was her daughter Hannah. Well might she be 
proud of her! At sixteen, Hannah Wilson was, beyond 



HANNAH. 281 

a doubt, the prettiest girl in the village, and the best. Hei 
beauty was quite in a different style from the common 
country rosebud — far more choice and rare. Its chief 
characteristic was modesty. A light, youthful figure, ex- 
quisitely graceful and rapid in all its movements ; springy, 
elastic and buoyant as a bird, and almost as shy; a fair, 
innocent face, with downcast blue eyes, and smiles and 
blushes coming and going almost with her thoughts ; a 
low, soft voice, sweet even in its monosyllables ; a dress 
remarkable for neatness and propriety, and borrowing from 
her delicate beauty an air of superiority not its own; — such 
was the outward woman of Hannah. Her mind was very 
like her person ; modest, graceful, gentle, affectionate, 
grateful, and generous above all. The generosity of the 
poor is always a very real and fine thing ; they give what 
they want ; and Hannah was of all poor people the most 
generous. She loved to give ; it was her pleasure, her 
luxury. Rosy-cheeked apples, plums with the bloom on 
them, nosegays of cloves and blossomed myrtle ; — these 
were offerings which Hannah delighted to bring to those 
whom she loved, or those who had shown her kindness ; 
whilst to others, who needed other attentions than fruit 
and flowers, she would give her time, her assistance, her 
skill; for Hannah inherited her mother's dexterity in 
feminine employments, with something of her father's 
versatile power. Besides being an excellent laundress, 
she was accomplished in all the arts of the needle, milli- 
nery, dress-making, and plain work; a capital cutter-out, 
an incomparable mender, and endowed with a gift of 
altering, which made old things better than new. She 
had no rival at a rifacanento, as half the turned gowns on 
the common can witness. As a dairy-woman, and a rearer 
of pigs and poultry, she was equally successful : none of 
her ducks and turkeys ever died of neglect or careless- 
ness, or, to use the phrase of the poultry-yard on such oc- 
casions, of '* ill-luck." Hannah's fowls never dreamed 
24 * 



282 HANNAH. 

of sliding out of the world in such an ignoble way : they 
all lived to be killed, to make a noise at their deaths, as 
chickens should do. She was also a famous " scholar," 
kept accounts, wrote bills, read letters, and answered 
them, was a trusty accountant, and a safe confidant. 
There was no end to Hannah's usefulness or Hannah's 
kindness ; and her prudence was equal to either. Except 
to be kind or useful, she never left her home ; attended no 
fairs, or revels, or Mayings; went no where but to church ; 
and seldom made a nearer approach to rustic revelry than 
by standing at her own garden-gate on a Sunday evening, 
with her little sister in her hand, to look at the lads and 
lasses on the green. In short, our village beauty had fairly 
reached her twentieth year without a sweetheart, without 
the slightest suspicion of her- having ever written a love- 
letter on her own account ; when, all on a sudden, appear- 
ances changed. She was missing at the "accustomed 
gate;" and one had seen a young man go into Dame Wil- 
son's; and another had descried a trim, elastic figure, 
walking, not unaccompanied, down the shady lane. Mat- 
ters were quite clear. Hannah had gotten a lover : and, 
when poor little Susan, who, deserted by her sister, ventur- 
ed to peep rather nearer at the gay group, was laughingly 
questioned on the subject, the hesitating No, and the half 
Yes, of the smiling child, were equally conclusive. 

Since the new marriage act, we, who belong to country 
magistrates, have gained a priority over the rest of the 
parish in matrimonial news. We (the privileged) see on 
a work-day the names which the Sabbath announces to 
the generality. Many a blushing, awkward pair hath our 
little lame clerk (a sorry Cupid !) ushered in between dark 
and light to stammer and hacker, to bow and courtesy, to 
sign or make a mark, as it pleases Heaven. One Satur- 
day, at the usual hour, the limping clerk made his appear- 
ance ; and, walking through our little hall, I saw a fine, 
athletic young man, the very image of health and vigor. 



HANNAH. 283 

mental and bodily, holding the hand of a young woman, 
who, with her head half buried in a geranium in the win- 
dow, was turning bashfully away, listening, and yet not 
seeming to listen, to his tender whispers. The shrinking 
grace of that bending figure was not to be mistaken. 
"Hannah!" and she went aside with me, and a rapid 
series of questions and answers conveyed the story of the 
courtship. "William was," said Hannah, " a journeyman 
hatter, in B. He had walked over one Sunday evening to 
see the cricketing ; and then he came again. Her mother 
liked him. Every body liked her William — and she had 
promised, — she was going, — Avas it wrong?" "O no! 
and where are you to live?" "William has got a room 
in B. He works for Mr. Smith, the rich hatter in the 
market-place ; and Mr. Smith speaks of him^ — O, so well ! 
But William will not tell me where our room is. I sup- 
pose in some narrow street, or lane, which he is afraid I 
shall not like, as our common is so pleasant. He little 
thinks — any where — " She stopped suddenly ; but her 
blush and her clasped hands finished the sentence — " any 
where with him!" "And when is the happy day?" 
" On Monday fortnight, madam," said the bridegroom 
elect, advancing with the little clerk to summon Hannah 
to the parlor, "the earliest day possible." He drew her 
arm through his, and we parted. 

The Monday fortnight was a glorious morning ; one of 
those rare November days when the sky and the air are 
soft and bright as in April. " What a beautiful day for 
Hannah ! " was the first exclamation of the breakfast-table. 
"Did she tell you where they should dine? " "No, ma'am ; 
I forgot to ask." " I can tell you," said the master of the 
house, with somewhat of good-humored importance in his 
air, somewhat of the look of a man who, having kept a 
secret as long as it was necessary, is not sorry to get rid 
of the burthen. "I can tell you; in London." "In 
London!" "Yes. Your little favorite has been in high 



294 HANNAH. 

luck. She has married the only son of one of the best 
and richest men in B., Mr. Smith, the great hatter. It is 
quite a romance," continued he : " William Smith walk- 
ed over one Sunday evening to see a match at cricket. 
He saw our pretty Hannah, and forgot to look at the 
cricketers. After having gazed his fill, he approached to 
address her; and the little damsel was off like a bird. 
William did not like her the less for that, and thought of 
her the more. He came again and again, and at last 
contrived to tame this wild dove, and even to get the entree 
of the cottage. Hearing Hannah talk, is not the way to 
fall out of love with her. So William, at last, finding his 
case serious, laid the matter before his father, and request- 
ed his consent to the marriage. Mr. Smith was at first a 
little startled; but William is an only son, and an excel- 
lent son ; and, after talking with me, and looking at Han- 
nah (I believe her sweet face was the more eloquent ad- 
vocate of the two), he relented; and, having a spice of 
his son's romance, finding that he had not mentioned his 
situation in life, he made a point of its being kept secret 
till the wedding-day. We have managed the business of 
settlements; and William, having discovered that his fair 
bride had some curiosity to see London (a curiosity, by 
the bye, which I suspect she owes to you or poor Lucy), 
intends taking her thither for a fortnight. He will then 
bring her home to one of the best houses in B., a fine 
garden, fine furniture, fine clothes, fine servants, and more 
money than she will know what to do with. Really, the 
surprise of Lord E.'s farmer's daughter, when, thinking 
she had married his steward, he brought her to Burleigh, 
and installed her as its mistress, could hardly have been 
greater. I hope the shock will not kill Hannah though, 
as is said to have been the case with that poor lady." 
**0 no! Hannah loves her husband too well. Any where 
with him ! " 

And I was right. Hannah has survived the shock. 



THE GOLDSMITH OF PADUA. 285 

She is returned to B., and I have been to call on her. I 
never saw any thing so delicate and bird-like as she look- 
ed in her white gown, and her lace mob, in a room light 
and simple, and tasteful and elegant, with nothing fine, 
except some beautiful green-house plants. Her reception 
was a charming mixture of sweetness and modesty, a lit- 
tle more respectful than usual, and far more shamefaced 1 
Poor thing ! her cheeks must have pained her ! But this 
was the only difference. In every thing else she is still the 
same Hannah, and has lost none of her old habits of kind- 
ness and gratitude. She was making a handsome mat- 
ronly cap, evidently for her mother, and spoke, even with 
tears, of her new father's goodness to her and to Susan. 
She would fetch the cake and wine herself, and would 
gather, in spite Of all remonstrance, some of her choice 
flowers as a parting nosegay. She did, indeed, just hint 
at her troubles with visitors and servants, — how strange 
and sad it was ! seemed distressed at ringing the bell, and 
visibly shrank from the sound of a double knock. But, in 
spite of these calamities, Hannah is a happy Vi^oman. The 
double rap was her husband's ; and the glow on her cheek, 
and the smile of her lips and eyes, when he appeared, 
spoke more plainly than ever, " Any where with him !" 

Miss Mitford, 



THE GOLDSMITH OF PADUA. 

In the end of the fifteenth century, when the cities 
of Italy were rendered rich by their trade to the Indies, 
Padua was one of the most flourishing of its towns, and 
possessed a body of merchants, and particularly gold- 
smiths, jewellers, and dealers in silk, with whom Venice 
itself could scarcely bear a comparison. Amongst these 



SS6 THE GOLDSMITH OF PADUA. 

goldsmiths and jewellers, there was one more eminent 
than his brethren. His dwelling was upon the bridge ; 
and Padua was scarcely more universally known in Italy, 
than Jeronimo Vincente was known for one of its citizens. 
*' It never rains but it pours," says a northern proverb ; 
"riches beget riches," says an Italian one. Jeronimo 
found the truth of both these sayings. He was already 
rich enough to satisfy a dozen merchants, and to make a 
score of German princes. Fortune, however, did not yet 
think that she had done enough for him ; every day some 
traveller was arriving at Padua, in the exchange of whose 
foreign money for the coin of Padua, he obtained some 
good bargains, and added to his overflowing coffers. Few 
died without relatives but he was appointed their ex- 
ecutor. Many paid tribute to his wealth and reputation 
by leaving him their heir. The city of Padua gave him 
all their public contracts; and he almost sunk under the 
weight of trusts, offices, &c., not merely offered, but ob- 
truded and imposed on him. 

Who could be more happy than Jeronimo Vincente t 
So he thought himself as he walked on the bridge of 
Padua one beautiful summer's evening. A coach of one 
of the nobles passed at the same moment ; no one noticed 
it. On the other hand, every one who passed him saluted 
him. " Such have been the effects of my industry, my 
dexterity in business, and my assiduous application. Yes, 
Jeronimo, others have to thank their ancestors ; you have 
to thank only yourself It is all your own merit." And 
with these reflections his stature, as it were, increased 
some inches higher, and, assuming a peculiar port, and a 
self-satisfied step, he walked in vanity, and almost in de- 
fiance of every thing and every one, to his own house. 
He fell asleep in the same mood, and dreamed that the an- 
cient fable of Jupiter was repeated in his house, and that 
the heavens opened, and descended upon him in a shower 
of ducats and pistoles. In all this soliloquy of Jeronimo, 



THE GOLDSMITH OF PADUA. 287 

the reader will observe, there was not a word or thought 
of any one but himself; he did not attribute his plenty to 
the blessing of God ; he felt no gratitude to him who had 
showered down upon him his abundance ; his mind, his 
spirit, and his vanity, were that of Nebuchadnezzar ; and 
the fate of Nebuchadnezzar was nearer to him than he 
imagined. It is a part of the wise economy of Providence 
to vindicate the honor and duty which belong to him ; it 
is a part of his mercy to humble those who, in forgetting 
him, are about to lose themselves. He sends them pros- 
perity as a blessing ; they abuse it, and convert it to a 
curse. He recalls the abused gift, and sends them adver- 
sity to bring them to their duty. Such was the course of 
divine government in the early ages of the world ; 
such it is to the present day ; and such did Jeronimo find 
it much sooner than he expected. 

On a sudden, without any apparent cause, he saw, to 
his astonishment, the universal respect to his wealth and 
reputation on a manifest decrease. Some, who had before 
nearly kissed the ground in his presence, now looked 
erectly in his face, and kept their straight-forward course, 
without giving him the honorable side of the path ; others 
kept their bonnets as if they were nailed to their heads ; 
two or three recalled their trusts ; others, happening to call 
for accounts of such trusts, when he was not at home or 
busy, spoke in a peremptory tone, dropped hints of the 
laws of the country and the duty of guardians. In plain 
words, he gradually discovered himself to be as much 
avoided as he had heretofore been sought. No one was 
punctual in his attendance but those to whom he paid 
their weekly or monthly pensions. If there could be any 
doubt that something extraordinary had happened, Jero- 
nimo had, at length, sufficient proof; for, having put him- 
self in nomination for one of the offices of parochial in- 
tendant, and of the great church and treasury of Padua, 



^S THE GOLDSMITH OF PADUA. 

a competitor was preferred less wealthy than himself by 
some thousands. 

Jeronimo returned home much confounded at this un- 
expected defeat. In vain he examined himself and his sit- 
uation for the cause. " Am I not as rich as ever 1 " said 
he. " Have I defrauded any one 1 — No. Have I suffered 
any one to demand their payment of me twice ? — No 
What, then, can be the cause of all this? " This was a 
question he could not answer, but the fact became daily and 
hourly so much more evident, that he shortly found him- 
self as much avoided, and apparently condemned, in every 
respectable company, as he had formerly been courted 
and honored. 

It is time, however, to give the reader some informa- 
tion as to the actual cause. A whisper was suddenly 
circulated, that Jeronimo had not acquired his wealth by 
honest means. It was reported, and gradually believed, 
that he was an utterer, if not a coiner, of base money. 
He had the reputation, as has been before said, of being 
the most able workman in Padua, in gold, silver, and 
lace; "And surely," said the gossips of Padua, "he 
does not wear his talent in a napkin. He employs his 
dexterity to some purpose." " Are you not speaking too 
fast?" said another neighbor ; "I have always held Jero- 
nimo to be an honest man." " And so have I hitherto," 
said the other. "But do you see this ducat ? " "Yes, 
and a very good one it is." " So I thought," said the 
other, " till I assayed it : this ducat I received from Jero- 
nimo ; let us prove it at your assay, and you will allow that 
I did not speak without some good foundation." The pro- 
posal was accepted, the trial made, and the ducat found to 
be base in the proportion of one third copper to two thirds 
silver. 

The name of this neighbor of Jeronimo, who had de- 
fended him, was Guiseppe Cognigero, a very worthy and 



THE GOLDSMITH OF PADUA. S99 

honest man ; not one of those who found a triumph in the 
downfall of another, though above him in wealth and hon- 
or. Guiseppe, as he had said, had always held Jeronimo to 
be a respectable, worthy citizen. He had had many deal- 
ings with him, and had always found him just and punctual 
to the lowest coin. " Is it possible," said he to himself, 
" that, after such a long course of honesty and reputation, 
he has so far forgotten himself as to become a common 
cheat? I will not believe it. But this fact of the base 
ducat ! — Well ; but my friend may be mistaken ; he might 
not have received this ducat from Jeronimo. I am resolv- 
ed I will make a trial of him myself, before I give in to 
the belief of these reports in the teeth of so fair a char- 
acter for so many years." Guiseppe was a shrewd man, 
and never fixed on a purpose but when he had the inge- 
nuity to find the means of executing it. He went imme- 
diately to his home, and, taking a hundred ducats from 
his private store, went with them to the house of Jeroni- 
mo. *' Signor Jeronimo," said he, " here are a hundred 
ducats, which I wish to keep secret for a certain purpose. 
I have just embarked in a speculation of great extent, the 
result of which no one can foresee. I wish to keep this 
sum as a deposit, in the event of the failure of my hopes, 
if you will do me the favor to take the custody of it." Je- 
ronimo, pleased at a confidence to which he was now not 
much accustomed, very willingly accepted the charge, 
and Guiseppe took his leave in the full persuasion that the 
trial would correspond with his expectations, and that re- 
port would be proved to be false and malicious. 

In the course of a few days, Guiseppe, according to the- 
plan concerted in his own mind, called suddenly on Jero- 
nimo. " My dear friend," said he, " I sincerely rejoice 
that I have found you at home : a sudden demand has fallen 
upon me, and I have an expected occasion for the hundred 
ducats which I deposited with you." *' My good friend," 
said Jeronimo, '* do not preface such a trifle with such a 
25 



290 THE GOLDSMITH OF PADUA. 

serious apology. The money is yours ; " and, at the 
same time opening a private drawer — '•' You see here it is, 
just as I deposited it. Take your money, my friend ; and 
you may always have the same or any other service from 
me." Saying this, he gave Guiseppe the same bag in 
which he had brought the ducats to him. 

Guiseppe hastened home, counted and examined the 
ducats. Their number was right ; their appearance seem- 
ed good. He sounded them singly. One sounded suspi- 
ciously ; he assayed it; it was base. "Well," said he, 
" this may be an accident ; I could almost swear, indeed, 
that every ducat I gave him was good ; but this I might 
perhaps have overlooked." He sounded another; his sus- 
picions increased ; another : he was now determined to 
assay them all. He did so ; and to his confusion (for the 
honest man was truly grieved and confounded at the detec- 
tion of his neighbor's dishonesty), he found thirty bad duc- 
ats out of the hundred. 

He now hastened back to Jeronimo. — " These are not 
the ducats, sir, I deposited with you ; here are thirty bad 
ducats out of the hundred." " Bad or good," replied 
Jeronimo, indignantly, " they are the same which you de- 
posited ; I took them from your hands, put them in the 
drawer, and they were not moved from thence till you re- 
demanded them." Guiseppe insisted, and at length se- 
verely reproached Jeronimo. Jeronimo commanded him 
to leave his house. " Can you suspect me of such a piti- 
ful fraud ] " said he. "Indeed I never should," replied 
he, " unless upon this absolute evidence. But there must 
be a fraud somewhere. Either I am attempting to defraud 
you, or you to cheat me. It is incumbent upon both our 
reputations that this matter should be cleared up. I shall 
go to the magistrates." "Go where you please," said Je- 
ronimo ; " but go without delay." 

Guiseppe immediately hastened to the president of jus- 
tice. He demanded a summons for Jeronimo. It was 



THE GOLDSMITH OF PADUA. 291 

granted. He complained, without reciting the particulars, 
that Jeronirao had paid him back a deposit, and, in a hun- 
dred ducats, had given him thirty bad. Jeronimo denied 
it. " I gave him back the same which he deposited with 
me." There was a law at Padua termed the " law of wa- 
ger." The substance of this was, that the party accused 
had it in his option to clear himself by an oath of his in- 
nocence. " Will you take your wager?" said Guiseppe. 
" Yes," replied Jeronimo. The Holy Evangelists were 
accordingly presented to him, and Jeronimo swore upon 
them that he had not touched, still less changed, the duc- 
ats, since they were deposited with him. The president, 
accordingly, gave judgment in his favor, being compelled 
thereto by the laws of Padua; and Guiseppe, with horror 
at the united fraud and perjury of the man whom he had 
hitherto deemed honest and respectable, left the court, and 
withdrew to his own house. 

This trial excited a universal interest and rumor in Pad- 
ua. The president of the law had acquitted Jeronimo ; 
not so, however, public reputation. Guiseppe was a man 
of established character ; Jeronimo's fame had been long 
blemished. The previous reports, therefore, were now 
considered as fully confirmed into certainty. The magis- 
trates, accordingly, deemed it necessary to point the atten- 
tion of the police to him and to his future dealings ; and Je- 
ronimo thereafter became a marked character. The police 
of Padua was administered with that discreet cunning for 
which the Italians are celebrated. Some of its officers 
very shortly contrived, in the disguise of foreign merchants, 
to make a deposit of good and marked money with Jeroni- 
mo, and shortly after redeemed it back. The money was 
restored as required. It was immediately carried, as be- 
fore, in the case of Guiseppe, to the public assay ; and the 
result was, that the greatest part of the number of the 
coins was found to be base. 

Jeronimo was next day arrested and thrown into prison. 



292 THE GO ^DSMITH OF PADUA. 

His house was searched in the same instant. The search 
most fully confirmed what, indeed, now required but little 
confirmation. In the secret drawers were found all the 
instruments of coining, as well as all the materials of 
adulteration. An immense quantity of base coin was 
likewise found in different parts of the house. All Padua 
was now in arms. They clamorously demanded justice on 
a man who had not the temptation of poverty to commit 
crimes. " Here is a man," said they, "who has raised his 
head above all of us, and lived in luxury and splendor, year 
after year, upon the fruit of his crimes. He has even sat 
on the public bench of magistrates, and administered the 
laws of Padua. If justice be not made for the rich, if its 
object be the defence of all, let him now be brought to 
trial, and meet with the punishment which he so well mer- 
its." The magistrates, in obedience to this popular clam- 
or, and at the same time acknowledging its justice, some- 
what hastened the trial of Jeronimo. He was brought 
forward, accused, and the witnesses examined ; he had 
nothing to allege which could weigh a single grain against 
the mass of evidence produced against him. He was, ac- 
cordingly, unanimously condemned. The trial was holden 
on the Monday : he was found guilty the same day, and 
ordered for execution in the public square on Friday fol- 
lowing ; the interval being granted for religious prepara- 
tions. 

Who was now so unhappy as Jeronimo de Vincente! 
and what a vicissitude in his fortune and reputation had 
a very short time produced ! Within those few months he 
had been the wealthiest and most respected man in Padua. 
The noblest families sought his only daughter in marriage ; 
his wife was the pattern and exemplar of all the ladies of 
the city and neighborhood ; his house was full of the 
richest furniture and paintings in Italy. Now, the officers 
of justice were in possession of it, and performed the vilest 
offices in the most magnificent chambers ; whilst, with the 



THE GOLDSMITH OF PADUA. 293 

ordinary insolence of such ruffians, they scarcely allowed 
a corner of the house to his unhappy wife and daughter. 
And where was Jeronimo himself? In the public prison 
of the city, in a cell not four feet square, and under or- 
ders for execution on the next following day. Was not 
this enough to reduce Jeronimo to his senses ? It was : 
he humbled himself before God, and implored his pity ; 
and it pleased the infinite Goodness to hear his prayers, 
and to send him relief where he least expected it. 

Jeronimo had a confidential clerk, or managing man, 
of the name of Jacobo. On the day preceding that order- 
ed for his master's execution, he was going up stairs to 
attend some message from his unhappy mistress, when his 
foot slipped, and he fell from the top to the bottom. His 
neck was dislocated by the fall, and he died without ut- 
tering a w^ord. The wife of this miserable man, then in 
feeble health, was so overwhelmed by the intelligence of 
this disaster, that she was immediately pronounced to be 
in the most imminent danger. She repeatedly requested, 
during the night, that Jeronimo's wife might be sent for to 
her, as she had something very heavy at her heart to com- 
municate to her. Jeronimo's wife accordingly came very 
early on the following morning. The unhappy woman, 
after having summoned up the small remnant of her 
strength, and requested Jeronimo's wife to hear what she 
had to say, but not to interrupt her till she had concluded, 
thus addressed her : — " Your husband is innocent ; mine 
was guilty. Fly to the magistrates, inform them of this, 
and save my husband's soul from adding to his other 

crimes the guilt of innocent blood. Thy husband " 

She was about to proceed, but death arrested her words. 
Jeronimo's wife, thinking that her husband was now effec- 
tually saved, flew to the president of the magistracy, and 
demanded immediate admission, and related the confession 
she had just received. The president shook his head. 
" Where is the woman that made the confession ? " " She 
25* 



294 THE GOLDSMITH OF PADUA. 

is dead." " Then where is the party accused instead of 
Jeronimo?" " He is dead likewise." "Have you any 
witnesses of the conversation of the dying woman ? " 
*' None ; she requested every one to leave the chamber, 
that she might communicate to me alone." " Then the 
confession, good woman, can avail you nothing : the law 
must have its course." Jeronimo's wife could make no 
reply : she was carried senseless out of the court ; and the 
president, from a due sense of humanity, ordered her to 
be taken to the house of one of his officers, and kept 
there till after the execution of her husband. 

The finishing of this catastrophe was now at hand. 
Already the great bell of the city was tolling. The hour 
at length arrived, and Jeronimo was led forth. He was 
desired to add any thing which he had to say, without loss 
of time. He satisfied himself with the declaration of his 
innocence, and with recommending his soul to his Ma- 
ker, then knelt down to receive the destined blow ; but 
scarcely was he on his knees, before the whole crowd was 
thrown into motion by some of the marshals of justice 
rushing forward and exclaiming to stop the execution. 
The marshal at length made his way to the scaffold, and 
delivered a paper, with which he was charged, to the pre- 
siding officer. The officer, upon reading it, immediately 
stayed the further progress of the execution, and Jeroni- 
mo was led back to his prison. " What is all this 1 " ex- 
claimed the crowd. " Have the friends of Jeronimo at 
length raised a sum of money which our just judges have 
required of them 1 and is his punishment thus bought off? 
Happy inhabitants of Padua, where to be rich is to be able 
to commit any crime with impunity ! " 

It is time, however, to inform the reader of the true 
cause. Jeronimo was scarcely led to execution, when 
the confessor of the prison demanded access to the presi- 
dent, and immediately laid before him the confession of a 
prisoner who had died under a fever the preceding night. 



THE GOLDSMITH OF PADUA. 295 

The wretched malefactor had acknowledged that he was 
one of a party of coiners, who had carried on the trade 
of making false money to a very great extent ; that Je- 
ronimo's clerk was at the head of the gang ; that all the 
false money was delivered to this clerk, who immedi- 
ately exchanged it for good money from his master's cof- 
fers, to all of which he had private keys, and in which 
coffers, on the apprehension of Jeronimo, he had deposited 
the instruments of coining, lest they should be found in 
his own possession. The confession terminated with enu- 
merating such of the gang as were yet living, and point- 
ing out their places of asylum and concealment. 

The execution of Jeronimo, as has been related, was 
in its actual operation. The first step of the president, 
therefore, was to hurry one of the officers to stop its prog- 
ress, and in the same moment to send off two or three 
detachments of the city guard to seize the accused parties 
before they should learn from public report the death of 
their comrade. The guards executed their purpose suc- 
cessfully ; the malefactors were all taken and brought to 
the tribunal the same evening. The result was, that one 
of them became evidence against his comrades, and thus 
confirmed the truth of the confession, and the innocence 
of Jeronimo. 

The president, in order to make all possible atonement, 
ordered a public meeting of all the citizens of Padua to be 
summoned on the following day. Jeronimo was then pro- 
duced, upon which the president, descending from his tri- 
bunal, took him by the hand, and led him up to a seat by 
the side of him, on the bench of justice : the crier then 
proclaimed silence ; upon which the president rose, and 
read the confession of the malefactor who died in the 
prison, and the transactions of the others, concluding the 
whole by declaring the innocence of Jeronimo, and re- 
storing him to his credit, his fortune, and the good opinion 
of his fellow-citizens. 



296 MASTER AND MAN. 

Thus ended the misfortunes of a man who had provok- 
ed the chastisement of Heaven by his vanity and self-glory. 
— The course of Providence is uniform in all ages of the 
world : when blessings are contemned, they are with- 
drawn — when the man unduly elevates himself, the mo- 
ment of his humiliation is at hand. 



MASTER AND MAN. 



Billy Mac Daniel was once as likely a young man as 
ever shook his brogue at a patron, emptied a quart, or 
handled a shillelagh : fearing for nothing but the want of 
drink ; caring for nothing but who should pay for it ; and 
thinking of nothing but how to make fun over it; drunk 
or sober, a word and a blow was ever the way with Billy 
Mac Daniel ; and a mighty easy way it is of either getting 
into or ending a dispute. More is the pity, that, through 
the means of his thinking, and fearing, and caring for 
nothing, this same Billy Mac Daniel fell into bad com- 
pany; for surely the good people (the fairies) are the worst 
of all company any one could come across. 

It so happened, that Billy was going home one very 
clear frosty night, not long after Christmas: the moon was 
round and bright; but, although it was as fine a night as 
heart could wish for, he felt pinched with the cold. " By 
my word," chattered Billy, " a drop of good liquor would 
be no bad thing to keep a man's soul from freezing in 
him ; and I wish I had a full measure of the best." 

" Never wish it twice, Billy," said a little man in a 
three-cornered hat, bound all about with gold lace, and 
with great silver buckles in his shoes, so big that it was a 
wonder how he could carry them ; and he held out a glass 
as big as himself, filled with as good liquor as ever eye look- 
ed on or lip tasted. 



MASTER AND MAN. 297 

*' Success, my little fellow," said Billy Mac Daniel, 
nothing daunted, though well he knew the little man to 
belong to the good people; " here's your health, any way, 
and thank you kindly; no matter who pays for the drink ;" 
and he took the glass, and drained it to the very bottom, 
without ever taking a second to it. 

" Success," said the little man ; " and you're heartily 
welcome, Billy ; but don't think to cheat me as you have 
done others — out with your purse, and pay me, like a gen- 
tleman." 

** Is it I pay you?" said Billy ; "could I not just take 
you up and put you in my pocket as easily as a black- 
berry ? " 

'' Billy Mac Daniel," said the little man, getting very 
angry, *' you shall be my servant for seven years and a 
day, and that is the way I will be paid ; so make ready to 
follow me." 

When Billy heard this, he began to be very sorry for 
having used such bold words towards the little man ; and 
he felt himself, yet could not tell how, obliged to foliowr 
the little man the livelong night about the country, up and 
down, and over hedge and ditch, and through bog and 
brake, without any rest. 

When morning began to dawn, the little man turned 
round to him, and said, ** You may now go home, Billy, 
but on your peril don't fail to meet me in the Fort-field 
to-night; or, if you do, it may be the worse for you in the 
long run. If I find you a good servant, you will find me 
an indulgent master." 

Home went Billy Mac Daniel ; and though he was tired 
and wearied enough, never a wink of sleep could he get 
for thinking of the little man ; and he was afraid not to 
do his bidding; so up he got in the evening, and away he 
went to the Fort-field. He was not long there before the 
little man came towards him, and said, " Billy, I want to 
go a long journey to-night ; so saddle one of my horses, 



298 ' MASTER AND MAN. 

and you may saddle another for yourself, as you are to 
go along with me, and may be tired after your walk 
last night." 

Billy thought this very considerate of his master, and 
thanked him accordingly. " But," said he, '* if I may be 
so bold, sir, I would ask, which is the way to your stable ? 
for never a thing do I see but the Fort here, and the old 
tree in the corner of the field, and the stream running at 
the bottom of the hill, with the bit of bog over against us." 

" Ask no questions, Billy," said the little man, " but go 
over to that bit of bog, and bring me two of the strongest 
rushes you can find." 

Billy did accordingly, wondering what the little man 
would be at : and he picked out two of the stoutest rushes 
he could find, with a little bunch of brown blossom stuck 
at the side of each, and brought them back to his master. 

*' Get up, Billy," said the little man, taking one of the 
rushes from him, and striding across it. 

" Where shall I get up, please your honor ? " said Billy. 

** Why, upon horseback, like me, to be sure," said the 
little man. 

" Is it after making a fool of me you'd be," said Billy, 
"bidding me get a-horseback upon that bit of a rush? 
May be you want to persuade me that the rush I pulled 
but awhile ago out of the bog there, is a horse ? " 

"Up! up! and no words," said the little man, looking 
very angry ; " the best horse you ever rode was but a fool 
to it." So Billy, thinking all this was in joke, and fear- 
ing to vex his master, straddled across the rush. " Bor- 
ram ! Borram ! Borram! " cried the little man three times 
(which in English means, to become great) ; and Billy did 
the same after him : presently the rushes swelled up into 
fine horses, and away they went full speed; but Billy, who 
had put the rush between his legs without much minding 
how he did it, found himself sitting on horseback the 
wrong way, which was rather awkward, with his face to 



MASTER AND MAN. 299 

the horse's tail ; and so quickly had his steed started off 
with him, that he had no power to turn round ; and there 
was therefore nothing for it but to hold on by the tail. 

At last they came to their journey's end, and stopped 
at the gate of a fine house. "Now, Billy," said the little 
man, "do as you see me do, and follow me close ; but as 
you did not know your horse's head from his tail, mind that 
your own head does not spin round until you can't tell 
whether you are standing on it or on your heels." 

The little man then said some queer kind of words, out 
of which Billy could make no meaning; but he contrived 
to say them after him for all that ; and in they both went 
through the keyhole of the door, and through one key- 
hole after another, until they got into the wine-cellar, 
which was well stored with all kinds of wine. 

The little man fell to drinking as hard as he could, and 
Billy, nowise disliking the example, did the same. " The 
best of masters are you, surely," said Billy to him; "no 
matter who is the next ; and well pleased will I be with 
your service if you continue to give me plenty to drink." 

" I have made no bargain with you," said the little man, 
" and will make none ; but up and follow me." Away 
they went, through keyhole after keyhole; and each, 
mounting upon the rush which he left at the hall door, 
scampered off, kicking the clouds before them like snow- 
balls, as soon as the words "Borram, Borram, Borram," 
had passed their lips. 

When they came back to the Fort-field, the little man 
dismissed Billy, bidding him to be there the next night at 
the same hour. Thus did they go on, night after night, 
shaping their course one night here, and another night 
there — sometimes north, and sometimes east, and some- 
times south, until there w^as not a gentleman's wine-cellar 
in all Ireland they had not visited, and could tell the flavor 
of every wine in it as well — ay, better — than the butler 
himself. 



300 MASTER AND MAN. 

One night, when Billy Mac Daniel met the little man as 
usual in the Fort-field, and was going to the bog to fetch 
the horses for their journey, his master said to him, " Billy, 
I shall want another horse to-night, for may be we may 
bring back more company with us than we take." So 
Billy, who now knew better than to question any order 
given to him by his master, brought a third rush, much 
wondering who it might be that would travel back in their 
company, and whether he was about to have a fellow-ser- 
vant. ** If I have," thought Billy, " he shall go and fetch 
the horses from the bog every night ; for I don't see why 
I am not, every inch of me, as good a gentleman as my 
master." 

Well, away they went, Billy leading the third horse, 
and never stopped until they came to a snug farmer's 
house in the county of Limerick, close under the old cas- 
tle of Carrigogunniel, that was built, they say, by the 
great Brian Boru. Within the house there was great ca- 
rousing going forward ; and the little man stopped outside 
for some time to listen ; then, turning round all of a 
sudden, he said, " Billy, I will be a thousand years old 
to-morrow." 

" God bless us ! sir," said Billy, " will you 1 " 

" Don't say these words again," said the little man, "or 
you will be my ruin forever. Now, Billy, as I will be a 
thousand years in the world to-morrow, I think it is full 
time for me to get married." 

" I think so too, without any kind of doubt at all," said 
Billy, " if ever you mean to marry." 

" And to that purpose," said the little man, " have I 
come all the way to Carrigogunniel ; for in this house, 
this very night, is young Darby Riley going to be married 
to Bridget Rooney ; and as she is a tall and comely girl, 
and has come of decent people, I think of marrying her 
myself, and taking her off with me." 

" And what will Darby Riley say to that 1 " said Billy. 



MASTER AND MAN. 301 

" Silence! " said the little man, putting on a mighty se- 
vere look ; ** T did not bring you here with me to ask ques- 
tions ; " and, without holding further argument, he began 
saying the queer words which had the power of passing 
him through the keyhole as free as air, and which Billy 
thought himself mighty clever to be able to say after him. 

In they both went; and, for the better viewing the 
company, the little man perched himself up, as nimbly as 
a cock-sparrow, upon one of the big beams which went 
across the house over all their heads, and Billy did the 
same upon another facing him ; but not being much ac- 
customed to roosting in such a place, his legs hung down 
as untidy as may be ; and it was quite clear he had not 
taken pattern after the way in which the little man had 
bundled hhnself up together. If the little man had been 
a tailor all his life, he could not have sat more content- 
edly upon his haunches. 

There they were, both master and man, looking down 
upon the fun that was going forward ; and under them 
were the priest and piper, and the father of Darby Riley, 
with Darby's two brothers and his uncle's son ; and there 
were both the father and the mother of Bridget Rooney, — 
and proud enough the old couple were that night of their 
daughter, as good right they had, — and her four sisters, 
with bran new ribands in their caps, and her three broth- 
ers, all looking as clean and as clever as any three boys in 
Munster ; and there were uncles and aunts, and gossips 
and cousins, enough, besides, to make a full house of it ; 
and plenty was there to eat and drink on the table for 
every one of them, if they had been double the number. 

Now it happened, just as Mrs. Rooney had helped his 
reverence to the first cut of the pig's head which was 
placed before her, beautifully bolstered up with white 
savoys, that the bride gave a sneeze which made every 
one at table start; but not a soul said " God bless us.'* All 
thinking that the priest would have done so, as he ouorht, 
26 



302 MASTER AND MAN. 

if he had done his duty, no one wished to take tne word 
out of his mouth, which, unfortunately, was preoccupied 
with pig's head and greens. And, after a moment's pause, 
the fun and merriment of the bridal feast went on without 
the pious benediction. 

Of this circumstance both Billy and his master were 
no inattentive spectators from their exalted stations. 
" Ha! " exclaimed the little man, throwing one leg from 
under him with a joyous flourish ; and his eye twinkled 
with a strange light, whilst his eyebrows became elevated 
into the curvature of Gothic arches — '* Ha ! " said he, leer- 
ing down at the bride, and then up at Billy, " I have half 
of her now, surely. Let her sneeze but twice more, 
and she is mine, in spite of priest, mass-book, and Darby 
Riley." 

Again the fair Bridget sneezed ; but it was so gently, 
and she blushed so much, that few, except the little man, 
took, or seemed to take, any notice ; and no one thought 
of saying " God bless us." 

Billy all this time regarded the poor girl with a most 
rueful expression of countenance ; for he could not help 
thinking what a terrible thing it was for a nice young girl 
of nineteen, with large blue eyes, transparent skin, dim- 
pled cheeks, suffused with health and joy, to be obliged to 
marry an ugly little bit of a man, who was a thousand 
years old, barring a day. 

At this critical moment, the bride gave a third sneeze, 
and Billy roared out with all his might, " God bless us ! " 
Whether this exclamation resulted from his soliloquy, or 
from the mere force of habit, he never could tell exactly 
himself; but no sooner was it uttered, than the little man, 
his face glowing with rage and disappointment, sprung 
from the beam on which he had perched himself, and, 
shrieking out in the shrill voice of a cracked bagpipe, " I 
discharge you my service, Billy Mac Daniel — take that for 
your wages " — gave poor Billy a most furious kick in the 



THE VENETIAN GIRL. 303 

back, which sent his unfortunate servant sprawling upon 
his face and hands right in the middle of the supper table. 
If Billy was astonished, how much more so was every 
one of the company into which he was thrown with so lit- 
tle ceremony ! but when they heard his story, father 
Cooney laid down his knife and fork, and married the 
young couple out of hand with all speed ; and Billy Mac 
Daniel danced the Rinka at their wedding ; and plenty did 
he drink at it too, which was what he thought more of 
than dancing. 

Croker. 



THE VENETIAN GIRL. 



The sun was shining beautifully one summer evening, 
as if he bade a sparkling farewell to a world which he had 
made happy. It seemed also by his looks as if he promised 
to make his appearance again to-morrow ; but there was, 
at times, a deep-breathing western wind ; and dark purple 
clouds came up here and there, like gorgeous waiters on a 
funeral. The children in a village not far from the me- 
tropolis were playing, however, on the green, content with 
the brightness of the moment, when they saw a female ap- 
proaching, who instantly gathered them about her by the 
singularity of her dress. It was not very extraordinary ; 
but any difference from the usual apparel of their country- 
women appeared so to them ; and crying out, " A French 
girl, a French girl ! " they ran up to her, and stood look- 
ing and talking. She seated herself upon a bench that 
was fixed between two elms, and for a moment leaned her 
head against one of them, as if faint with walking. But 
she raised it speedily, and smiled with great complacence 
on the rude urchins. She had a bodice and petticoat on 



304 THE VENETIAN GIRL. 

of different colors, and a handkerchief tied neatly about 
her head with the point behind. On her hands were 
gloves without fingers ; and she wore about her neck a 
guitar, upon the strings of which one of her hands rested. 
The children thought her very handsome. Any one else 
would also have thought her very ill ; but they saw nothing 
in her but a good-natured looking foreigner and a guitar, 
and they asked her to play. " Oh che bei ragazzi ! " said 
she, in a soft and almost inaudible voice ; — " Che visi li- 
eti ! " * and she began to play. She tried to sing, too ; but 
her voice failed her, and she shook her head smilingly, 
saying, " Stanca ! Stanca! " t " Sing, do sing," said the 
children ; and, nodding her head, she was trying to do so, 
when a set of schoolboys came up and joined in the request. 
" No, no," said one of the elder boys, "she is not well. 
You are ill, a'n't you, — miss ? " added he, laying his hand 
upon hers, as if to hinder it. He drew out the last word 
somewhat doubtfully, for her appearance perplexed him ; 
he scarcely knew whether to take her for a common stroll- 
er, or a lady straying from a sick bed. " Grazie ! " said 
she, understanding his look ; " troppo stanca ; troppo." f 
By this time the usher came up, and addressed her in 
French ; but she only understood a word here and there. 
He then spoke Latin, and she repeated one or two of his 
words, as if they were familiar to her. " She is an Ital- 
ian, " said he, looking round with good-natured impor- 
tance. " Non dubito," continued the usher, " quin tu 
lectitas poetam ilium celeberrimum, Tassonem ; § Taxum 
I should say, properly, but the departure from the Italian 
name is considerable." The stranger did not understand 
a word. " I speak of Tasso," said the usher — " of Tas- 
so." " Tasso ! Tasso ! " repeated the fair minstrel ; " oh 



* O what fine boys ! What happy faces ! 

t Weary ! Weary ! t Thanks ; — too weary ! too weary ! 

§ Doubtless you read that celebrated poet Tasso. 



THE VENETIAN GIRL. 305 

— conhosco — Tas-so ; " * and she hung with a beautiful 
languor upon the first syllable. " Yes," returned the wor- 
thy scholar, " doubtless your accent may be better. Then, 
of course, you know those classical lines — 

' Intanto Erminia infra I'ombrose piante 
D'antica selva dal cavallo ' 

what is it?" 

The stranger repeated the words in a tone of fondness, 
like those of an old friend : — 

" Intanto Erminia infra Tombrose piante 
D'antica selva dal cavallo e scorta; 
Ne piu governo il fren la man tremante, 
E mezza quasi par tra viva e morta." t 

Our usher's common-place book had supplied him with 
a fortunate passage, for it was the favorite song of her 
countrymen. It also singularly applied to her situation. 
There was a sort of exquisite mixture of silver clearness 
and soft mealiness in her utterance of these verses, which 
gave some of the children a better idea of French than 
they had had ; for they could not got it out of their heads 
that she must be a French girl ; " Italian-French, per- 
haps," said one of them. But her voice trembled, as she 
went on, like the hand she spoke of. *' I have heard my 
poor cousin Montague sing those very lines," said the boy 
who prevented her from playing. " Montague," repeated 
the stranger very plainly, but turning paler and fainter. 
She put one of her hands, in turn, upon the boy's, aifec- 
tionately, and pointed towards the spot where the church 
was. " Yes, yes," cried the boy ; " why, she knew ray 

* O — I know Tasso. 

t Meantime in the old w^ood, the palfrey bore 
Erminia deeper into shade and shade ; 
Her trembling hands could hold him in no more, 
And she appeared betwixt alive and dead. 
26* 



306 THE VENETIAN GIRL. 

cousin; — she must have known him in Venice." " I told 
you," said the usher, " she was an Italian." " Help her 
to my aunt's," continued the youth ; " slie'll understand 
her : — lean upon me, miss ; " and he repeated the last word 
without his former hesitation. 

Only a few hoys followed her to the door, the rest hav- 
ing been awed away by the usher. As soon as the stran- 
ger entered the house, and saw an elderly lady, who receiv- 
ed her kindly, she exclaimed, ** La Signora Madre," and 
fell in a swoon at her feet. 

She was taken to bed, and attended with tho utmost 
care by her hostess, who would not suffer her to talk till 
she had had a sleep. She merely heard enough to find 
out that the stranger had known her son in Italy ; and 
she was thrown into a painful state of guessing by the 
poor girl's eyes, which followed her about the room till 
the lady fairly came up and closed them. "Obedient! 
Obedient ! " said the patient ; " obedient in every thing ; 
only the signora will let me kiss her hand ; " and, taking 
it with her own trembling one, she laid her cheek upon it ; 
and it staid there till she dropped asleep for weariness. 



" Silken rest 

Tie all thy cares up," 

thought her kind watcher, who was doubly thrown upon a 
recollection of that beautiful passage in Beaumont and 
Fletcher, by the suspicion she had of the cause of the 
girl's visit. " And yet," thought she, turning her eyes, 
with a thin tear in them, towards the church spire, *' he 
was an excellent boy — the boy of my heart." 

When the stranger woke, the secret was explained ; 
and if the mind of her hostess was relieved, it was only 
the more touched with pity, and, indeed, moved with re- 
spect and admiration. The dying girl (for she was evi- 
dently dying, and happy at the thought of it) was the 



THE VENETIAN GIRL. 307 

niece of an humble tradesman in Venice, at whose house 
young Montague, who was a gentleman of small fortune, 
had lodged, and fallen sick in his travels. She was a live- 
ly, good-natured girl, whom he used to hear coquetting 
and playing the guitar with her neighbors; and it was 
greatly on this account, that her considerate and hushing 
gravity struck him whenever she entered his room. One 
day he heard no more coquetting, nor even the guitar. 
He asked the reason, when she came to give him some 
drink ; and she said that she had heard him mention some 
noise that disturbed him. *' But you do not call your 
voice and your music a noise," said he, '* do you, Rosaura? 
I hope not, for I had expected it would give me double 
strength to get rid of this fever and reach home." Ro- 
saura turned pale, and let the patient into a secret ; but 
what surprised and delighted him was, that she played 
her guitar nearly as often as before, and sung too, only 
less sprightly airs. " You get better and better, signer," 
said she, " every day ; and your mother will see you and 
be happy. I hope you will tell her what a good doctor 
you had." '* The best in the world," cried he, as he sat 
up in bed : he put his arm round her waist, and kissed 
her. " He begged my pardon," said the poor girl, 
" as I was hastening out of the room, and hoped I 
should not construe his warmth into impertinence; and 
to hear him talk so to me, who used to fear what he 
might think of myself — it made me stand in the passage, 
and lean my head against the wall, and weep such bitter 
and yet such sweet tears ! But he did not hear me : — 
no, madam, he did not know, indeed, how much I — how 
much I — " " Loved him, child," interrupted Mrs. 
Montague ; " you have a right to say so; and I wish he 
had been alive to say as much to you himself" " Oh," 
said the dying girl, her tears flowing away, *' this is too 
great a happiness for me, to hear his own mother talk- 



308 THE VENETIAN GIRL. 

ing so." And again she lays her weak head upon the lady's 
hand. The latter would have persuaded her to sleep 
again, but she said she could not for joy ; ''for I'll tell 
you, madam," continued she ; " I do not believe you'll 
think it foolish, for something very grave at my heart tells 
me it is not so ; but I have had a long thought" (and her 
voice and look grew somewhat more exalted as she spoke), 
"which has supported me, through much toil and many 
disagreeable things, to this country and this place ; and I 
will tell you what it is, and how it came into my mind. I 
received this letter from your son." Here she drew out a 
paper, which, though carefully wrapped up in several oth- 
ers, was much worn at the sides. It was dated from the 
village, and ran thus : — " This comes from the English- 
man whom Rosaura nursed so kindly at Venice. She will 
be sorry to hear that her kindness was in vain, for he is 
dying; and he sometimes fears, that her sorrow will be 
still greater than he could wish it to be. But marry one 
of your kind countrymen, my good girl; for all must love 
Rosaura who know her. If it shall be my lot ever to meet 
her in heaven, I will thank her as a blessed tongue only 
can." "As soon as I read this letter, madam, and what 
he said about heaven, it flashed into my head, that, though 
I did not deserve him on earth, I might, perhaps, by try- 
ing and patience, deserve to be joined with him in heaven, 
where there is no distinction of persons. My uncle was 
pleased to see me become a religious pilgrim ; but he knew 
as little of the contract as I ; and I found that I could 
earn my way to England better, and quite as religiously, by 
playing my guitar, which was also more independent ; and 
I had often heard your son talk of independence and free- 
dom, and commend me for doing what he was pleased to 
call so much kindness to others. So I played my guitar 
from Venice all the way to England ; and all that I earned 
by it I gave away to the poor, keeping enough to procure 



pjmimmmHmM!) 








Say one prayer for me, dear lady." — Page 



THE VENETIAN GIRL. 309 

me lodging. I lived on bread and water, and used to 
weep happy tears over it, because I looked up to heaven, 
and thought he might see me. So, playing and giving 
alms in tliis manner, I arrived in the neighborhood of your 
beloved village, where I fell sick for a while, and was very 
kindly treated in an outhouse ; though the people, I 
thought, seemed to look strange and afraid on this cruci- 
fix, — though your son never did, — but he taught me to 
think kindly of every body, and hope the best, and leave 
every thing, except our own endeavors, to Heaven. I fell 
sick, madam, because I found for certain that the Signor 
Montague was dead, albeit I had no hope that he was 
alive." She stopped awhile for breath, for she was grow- 
ing weaker and weaker ; and her hostess would fain have 
had her keep silence ; but she pressed her hand as well 
as she might, and prayed with such a patient panting of 
voice to be allowed to go on, that she was. She smiled 
beautifully, and resumed : — '' So, when — so, when I got my 
strength a little again, I walked on, and came to the belov- 
ed village ; and I saw the beautiful white church spire in 
the trees ; and then I knew where his body slept ; and I 
thought some kind person would help me to die with my 
face looking towards the church, as it now does ; and 
death is upon me, even now; but lift me a little higher on 
the pillows, dear lady, that I may see the green ground of 
the hill." 

She was raised up as she wished, and, after looking 
a while with a placid feebleness at the hill, said, in a very 
low voice, " Say one prayer for me, dear lady, and if it be 
not too proud in me, call me in it your daughter." The 
mother of her beloved summoned up a grave and earnest 
voice, as well as she might, and knelt, and said, " O heav- 
enly Father of us all, who, in the midst of thy manifold 
and merciful bounties, bringest us into strong passes of an- 
guish, which, nevertheless, thou enablest us to go through, 
look down, we beseech thee, upon this thy young and in- 



310 COUSIN MARY. 

nocent servant, the daughter, that might have been, of my 
heart, and enable her spirit to pass through the struggling 
bonds of mortality and be gathered into thy rest with those 
we love : — do, dear and great God, of thy infinite mercy ; 
for we are poor, weak creatures, both young and old." Here 
her voice melted away into a breathing tearfulness ; and 
after remaining on her knees a moment, she rose, and look- 
ed upon the bed, and saw that the weary, smiling one 
was no more. 

The Indicator. 



COUSIN MARY. 



About four years ago, passing a few days with the 
highly-educated daughters of some friends in this neigh- 
borhood, I found domesticated in the family a young lady, 
whom I shall call, as they called her, cousin Mary. She 
was about eighteen, not beautiful, perhaps, but lovely 
certainly to the fullest extent of that loveliest word; — as 
fresh as a rose : as fair as a lily ; with lips like winter ber- 
ries, dimpled, smiling lips; and eyes of which nobody 
could tell the color, they danced so incessantly in their 
own gay light. Her figure was tall, round, and slender : 
exquisitely well proportioned it must have been, for, in all 
attitudes (and, in her innocent gayety, she was scarcely 
ever two minutes in the same), she was grace itself She 
was, in short, the very picture of youth, health, and hap- 
piness. No one could see her without being prepossessed 
in her favor. I took a fancy to her the moment she entered 
the room ; and it increased every hour, in spite of, or 
rather, perhaps, for, certain deficiencies, which caused poor 
cousin Mary to be held exceedingly cheap by her accom- 
plished relatives. 



COUSIN MARY. 311 

She was the youngest daughter of an officer of rank, 
dead long ago; and his sickly widow, having lost by death, 
or that other death, marriage, all her children but this, 
could not, from very fondness, resolve to part with her 
darling for the purpose of acquiring the commonest instruc- 
tion. She talked of it, indeed, now and then, but she only 
talked ; so that, in this age of universal education, Mary C, 
at eighteen, exhibited the extraordinary phenomenon of a 
young woman of high family, whose acquirements were 
limited to reading, writing, needle-work, and the first rules 
of arithmetic. The effect of this let-alone system, combin- 
ed with a careful seclusion from all improper society, and 
a perfect liberty in her country rambles, acting upon a mind 
of great power and activity, was the very reverse of what 
might have been predicted. It had produced not merely 
a delightful freshness and originality of manner and char- 
acter, a piquant ignorance of those things of which one is 
tired to death, but knowledge — positive, accurate, and va- 
rious knowledge. 

She was, to be sure, wholly unaccomplished ; knew 
nothing of quadrilles, though her every motion was dan- 
cing ; nor a note of music, though she used to warble, like 
a bird, sweet snatches of old songs, as she skipped up and 
down the house ; nor of painting, except as her taste had 
been formed, by a minute acquaintance with nature, into 
an intense feeling of art. She had that real extra sense, an 
eye for color, too, as well as an ear for music. Not one in 
twenty — not one in a hundred — of our sketcliing and copy- 
ing ladies could love and appreciate a picture where there 
was color and mind, a picture by Claude, or by our Eng- 
lish Claudes, Wilson and Hoffland, as she could ; for she 
loved landscape best, because she understood it best ; it 
was a portrait of which she knew the original. Then 
her needle was in her hands almost a pencil. I never 
knew such an embroidress : she would sit " printing her 
thoughts on lawn," till the delicate creation vied with the 



312 COUSIN MARY. 

snowy tracery, the fantastic carving, of hoar frost, the 
richness of Gothic architecture, or of that which so much 
resembles it, the luxuriant fancy of old point lace. That 
was her only accomplishment, and a rare artist she was — 
muslin and net were her canvass. 

She had no French either, not a word ; no Italian ; but 
then her English was racy, unhackneyed, proper to the 
thought, to a degree that only original thinking could give. 
She had not much reading, except of the Bible, and Shak- 
speare, and Richardson's novels, in which she was learn- 
ed ; but then her powers of observation were sharpened 
and quickened, in a very unusual degree, by the leisure 
and opportunity afforded for their developement, at a time 
of life when they are most acute. She had nothing to dis- 
tract her mind. Her attention was always awake and 
alive. She was an excellent and curious naturalist, mere- 
ly because she had gone into the fields with her eyes open, 
and knew all the details of rural management, domestic or 
agricultural, as well as the peculiar habits and modes of 
thinking of the peasantry, simply because she had lived in 
the country, and made use of her ears. 

Then she was fanciful, recollcctive, new ; drew her 
images from the real objects, not from their shadows in 
books. In short, to listen to her, and the young ladies 
her companions, who, accomplished to the height, had 
trodden the education-mill till they all moved in one step, 
had lost sense in sound, and ideas in words, was enough 
to make us turn masters and governesses out of doors, 
and leave our daughters and grand-daughters to Mrs. 
C.'s system of non-instruction. I should have liked to 
meet with another specimen, just to ascertain whether 
the peculiar charm and advantage arose from the quick 
and active mind of this fair Ignorant, or was really the 
natural and inevitable result of the training; but, alas! to 
find more than one unaccomplished young lady in this 
accomplished age, is not to be hoped for. So I admired 



COUSIN MARY. 313 

and envied ; and her fair kinswomen pitied and scorned, 
and tried to teach; and Mary, never made for a learner, 
and as full of animal spirits as a school-boy in the holi- 
days, sang, and laughed, and skipped about, from morning 
to night. 

It must be confessed, as a counterbalance to her other 
perfections, that the dear cousin Mary was, as far as great 
natural modesty and an occasional touch of shyness would 
let her, the least in the world of a romp ! She loved to 
toss about children, to jump over stiles, to scramble through 
hedges, to climb trees; and some of her knowledge of 
plants and birds may certainly have arisen from her de- 
light in these boyish amusements. And which of us has 
not found that the strongest, the healthiest, and most 
flourishing acquirement has arisen from pleasure or acci- 
dent; has been in a manner self-sown, like an oak of the 
forest ? — O, she was a sad romp ; as skittish as a wild 
colt, as uncertain as a butterfly, as uncatchable as a swal- 
low ; but her great personal beauty, the charm, grace, and 
lightness of her movements, and, above all, her evident in- 
nocence of heart, were bribes to indulgence which no one 
could withstand. I never heard her blamed by any human 
being. 

The perfect unrestraint of her attitudes, and the exqui- 
site symmetry of her form, would have rendered her an 
invaluable study for a painter. Her daily doings would 
have formed a series of pictures. I have seen her scudding 
through a shallow rivulet, with her dress caught up just a 
little above the ankle, like a young Diana, and a bounding, 
skimming, enjoying motion, as if native to the element, 
which might have become a Naiad. I have seen her on 
the topmost round of a ladder, with one foot on the roof 
of a house, flinging down the grapes that no one else had 
nerve enough to reach, laughing, and garlanded, and 
crowned with vine-leaves, like a Bacchante. 

But the prettiest coi ibination of circumstances under 
27 



314 COUSIN MARY. 

which 1 ever saw her, was driving a donkey cart up a hill 
one sunny, windy day in September. It was a gay party 
of young women, some walking, some in open carriages of 
different descriptions, bent to see a celebrated prospect 
from a hill called the Ridges. The ascent was by a steep, 
narrow lane, cut deeply between sand-banks, crowned with 
high, feathery hedges. The road and its picturesque banks 
lay bathed in the golden sunshine, whilst the autumnal 
sky, intensely blue, appeared at the top as through an arch. 
The hill was so steep that we had all dismounted, and left 
our different vehicles in charge of the servants below; but 
Mary, to whom, as incomparably the best charioteer, the 
conduct of a certain non-descript machine, a sort of 
donkey curricle, had fallen, determined to drive a delicate 
little girl, who was afraid of the walk, to the top of the 
eminence. She jumped out for the purpose, and we fol- 
lowed, watching and admiring her, as she won her way 
up the hill ; now tugging at the donkeys in front with 
her bright face towards them and us, and springing along 
backwards — now pushing the chaise from behind — now 
running by the side of her steeds, patting and caressing 
them — now soothing the half-frightened child — now laugh- 
ing, nodding, and shaking her little whip at us — darting 
about like some winged creature — till, at last, she stopped 
at the top of the ascent, and stood for a moment on the 
summit, her straw bonnet blown back, and held on only 
by the strings ; her brown hair playing on the wind in long 
natural ringlets ; her complexion becoming every moment 
more splendid from exertion, redder and whiter ; her eyes 
and her smile brightening and dimpling ; her figure, in its 
simple white gown, strongly relieved by the deep blue sky, 
and her whole form seeming to dilate before our eyes. 
There she stood, under the arch formed by two meeting 
elms, a Hebe, a Psyche, a perfect goddess of youth and 
joy. The Ridges are very fine things altogether, espe- 
cially the part to which we were bound — a turfy, breezy 



COUSIN MARY. 315 

spot, sinking down abruptly like a rock into a wild fore- 
ground of heath and forest, with a magnificent command 
of distant objects ; but we saw nothing, that day, like the 
figure on the top of the hill. 

After this, I lost sight of her for a long time. She was 
called suddenly home by the dangerous illness of her 
mother, who, after languishing for some montlis, died ; and 
Mary went to live with a sister much older than herself, 
and richly married, in a manufacturing town, where she 
languished in smoke, confinement, dependence, and dis- 
play (for her sister was a match-making lady, a manceu- 
vrer), for about a twelvemonth. She then left her house 
and went into Wales — as a governess ! Imagine the as- 
tonishment caused by this intelligence amongst us all ; for 
I myself, though admiring the untaught damsel almost as 
much as I loved her, should certainly never have dreamed 
of her as a teacher. However, she remained in the rich 
baronet's family where she had commenced her vocation. 
They liked her, apparently ; there she was ; and again 
nothing was heard of her for many months, until, happen- 
ing to call on the friends, at whose house I had originally 
met her, I espied her fair, blooming face, a rose amongst 
roses, at the drawing-room window, and instantly, with 
the speed of light, was met and embraced by her at the 
hall door. 

There was not the slightest perceptible difference in her 
deportment. She still bounded like a fawn, and laughed 
and clapped her hands like an infant. She was not a day 
older, or graver, or wiser, since we parted. Her post of 
tutoress had, at least, done her no harm, whatever might 
have been the case with her pupils. The more I looked 
at her, the more I w^ondered ; and after our mutual ex- 
pressions of pleasure had a little subsided, I could not re- 
sist the temptation of saying, *•' So you are really a gov- 
erness?" "Yes." "And you continue in the same 
family?" "Yes." " And you like your post ? " "Oyes! 



316 GORDON THE GYPSY. 

yes ! " " But, ray dear Mary, what could induce you to go ?" 
" Why, they wanted a governess ; so I went." " But what 
could induce them to keep you ? " The perfect gravity 
and earnestness with which this question was put, set her 
laughing ; and the laugh was echoed back from a group at 
the end of the room, which I had not before noticed — an 
elegant man, in the prime of life, showing a port-folio of 
rare prints to a fine girl of twelve, and a rosy boy of seven, 
evidently his children. " Why did they keep me? Ask 
them," replied Mary, turning towards them with an arch 
smile. " We kept her to teach her ourselves," said the 
young lady. " We kept her to play cricket with us," said 
her brother. " We kept her to marry," said the gentle- 
man, advancing gayly to shake hands with me. " She was 
a bad governess perhaps ; but she is an excellent wife — 
that is her true vocation." And so it is. She is, indeed, 
an excellent wife, and assuredly a most fortunate one. I 
never saw happiness so sparkling or so glowing ; never 
saw such devotion to a bride, or such fondness for a step- 
mother, as Sir. W. S. and his lovely children show to the 
sweet cousin Mary. 

Miss Mitford. 



GORDON THE GYPSY. 



In one of those drear midnights that were so awful to 
travellers in the Highlands soon after 1745, a man, wrapped 
in a large, coarse plaid, strode from a stone ridge on the 
border of Loch Lomond into a boat which he had drawn 
from its covert. He rowed resolutely, and alone, looking 
carefully to the right and left, till he suffered the tide to 
bear his little bark into a gorge or gulf, so narrow, deep. 



GORDON THE GYPSY. 317 

and dark, that no escape but death seemed to await him. 
Precipices, rugged with dwarf shrubs and broken granite, 
rose more than a hundred feet on each side, sundered 
only by the stream, which a thirsty season had reduced to 
a sluggish and shallow pool. Then, poising himself erect 
on his staff, the boatman drew three times the end of a 
strong chain which hung among the underwood. In a 
few minutes, a basket descended from the pinnacle of the 
cliff, and, having moored his boat, he placed himself in 
the wicker carriage, and was safely drawn into a crevice 
high in the wall of rock, where he disappeared. 

The boat was moored, but the adventurer had not 
observed that it contained another passenger. Underneath 
a plank laid artfully along its bottom, and shrouded in a 
plaid of the darkest grain, another man had been lurking 
more than an hour before the owner of the boat entered 
it, and remained hidden by the darkness of the night. 
His purpose was answered. He had now discovered what 
he had sacrificed many perilous nights to obtain — a knowl- 
edge of the mode by which the owner of Drummond's 
Keep gained access to his impregnable fortress unsuspect- 
ed. He instantly unmoored the boat, and rowed slowly 
back across the loch to an island near the centre. He 
rested on his oars, and looked down on its transparent 
water. " It is there still," he said to himself; and, draw- 
ing close among the rocks, leaped on dry land. A dog, 
of the true shepherd's breed, sat waiting under the bushes, 
and ran before him till they descended together under an 
archway of stones and withered branches. "Watch the 
boat ! " said the Highlander to his faithful guide, who 
sprang immediately away to obey him. Meanwhile his 
master lifted up one of the gray stones, took a bundle from 
underneath it, and equipped himself in such a suit as a 
trooper of Cameron's regiment usually wore, looked at 
the edge of his dirk, and returned to his boat. 

That island had once belonged to the heritage of the 
27* 



318 GORDON THE GYPSY. 

Gordons, whose ancient family, urged by old prejudices 
and hereditary courage, had been foremost in the ill- 
managed rebellion of 1715. One of the clan of Argyle 
then watched a favorable opportunity to betray the laird's 
secret movements, and was commissioned to arrest him. 
Under pretence of friendship, he gained entrance to his 
Btrong-hold in the isle, and concealed a posse of the king's 
soldiers at Gordon's door. The unfortunate laird leaped 
from his window into the lake, and his false friend, seeing 
his desperate efforts, threw him a rope, as if in kindness, 
to support him, while a boat came near. " That rope 
was meant for my neck," said Gordon ; " and I leave it 
for a traitor's," With these bitter words he sank. Cam- 
eron saw him, and the pangs of remorse came into his 
heart. He leaped himself into a boat, put an oar towards 
his drowning friend with real oaths of fidelity ; but Gordon 
pushed it from him, and abandoned himself to death. 
The waters of the lake are singularly transparent near 
that isle, and Cameron beheld his victim gradually sink- 
ing, till he seemed to lie among the broad weeds under the 
waters. Once, only once, he saw, or thought he saw, him 
lift his hand as if to reach his; and that dying hand never 
left his remembrance. Cameron received the lands of 
the Gordon as a recompense for his political services, and 
with them the tower called Drummond's Keep, then stand- 
ing on the edge of a hideous defile, formed by two walls 
of rock beside the lake. But from that day he had never 
been seen to cross the loch, except in darkness, or to go 
abroad without armed men. He had been informed that 
Gordon's only son, made desperate by the ruin of his 
father and the Stuart cause, had become the leader of a 
gypsy gang, the most numerous and savage of the many 
that haunted Scotland. He was not deceived. Andrew 
Gordon, with a body of most athletic composition, a spirit 
sharpened by injuries, and the vigorous genius created by 
necessity, had assumed dominion over two hundred ruf- 



GORDON THE GYPSY. 319 

fians, whose exploits in driving off cattle, cutting drovers' 
purses, and removing the goods brought to fairs or markets, 
were performed with all the audacious regularity of privi- 
leged and disciplined thieves. Cameron was the chosen 
and constant object of their vengeance. His keep or 
tower was of the true Scottish fabric, divided into three 
chambers ; the highest of which was the dormitory, the 
second or middle served as a general refectory, and the 
lowest contained his cattle, which required this lodgment 
at night, or very few^ would have been found the next morn- 
ing. His enemy frequented the fairs on the north side 
of Forth, well mounted, paying at inns and ferries like 
a gentleman, and attended by bands of gillies or young 
pupils, whose green coats, cudgels, and knives, were suf- 
ficiently feared by the visitors of dueensferry and Dum- 
fermline. The gypsy chieftain had also a grim cur, of 
the true black-faced breed, famous for collecting and 
driving off sheep, and therefore distinguished by his own 
name. In the darkest cleughs or ravines, or in the deepest 
snow, this faithful animal had never been known to aban- 
don the stolen flock intrusted to his care, or to fail in 
tracing a fugitive. But as sight and strength failed him, 
the four-footed chieftain was deposed, imprisoned in a 
byre loft, and finally sentenced to be drowned. From 
this trifling incident arose the most material crisis of his 
patron's fate. 

Between the years 1715 and 1745, many changes oc- 
curred in Captain Gordon and bis enemy. The laird 
of Drummond's Keep had lost his only son in the battle 
of Preston Pans, and was now lingering, in a desolate old 
age, mistrusted by the government, and abhorred by the 
subdued Jacobites. Gordon's banded marauders had 
provoked the laws too far, and some sanguinary battles 
among themselves threatened the downfall of his own 
power. It was only a few nights after a desparate aflTray 
with the Linlithgow gypsys, that the event occurred which 



320 GORDON THE GYPSY. 

begins my narrative. Gordon had been long lying in am- 
bush to find access to his enemy's strongliold, intending 
to terminate his vagrant career by an exploit which should 
satisfy his avarice and his revenge. Equipped, as I have 
said, in a Cameronian trooper's garb, he returned to the 
foot of the cliff from whence he had seen the basket 
descending to convey Gavin Cameron ; and climbing up 
its rough face with the activity required by mountain war- 
fare, he hung among furze and broken rocks like a wild- 
cat, till he found the crevice through which the basket 
had seemed to issue. It was artfully concealed by tufts of 
heather ; but, creeping on his hands and knees, he forced 
his way into the interior. There the deepest darkness 
confounded him, till he laid his hand on a chain, which 
he rightly guessed to be the same he had seen hanging on 
the side of the lake when Cameron landed. One end was 
coiled up ; but he readily concluded that the other must 
have some communication with the keep, and he followed 
its course till he found it inserted in what seemed a sub- 
terraneous wall. A crevice behind the pulley admitted a 
gleam of light; and, striving to raise himself sufliciently to 
gain a view through it, he leaned too forcibly on the 
chain, which sounded a bell. Its unexpected sound would 
have startled an adventurer less daring ; but Gordon had 
prepared his stratagem, and had seen, through the loop- 
hole in the wall, that no powerful enemy was to be dreaded. 
Gavin Cameron was sitting alone in the chamber within, 
with his eyes fixed on the wood-ashes in his immense 
hearth. At the hollow sound of the bell, he cast them 
fearfully round, but made no attempt to rise, though he 
stretched his hand towards a staff which lay near him. 
Gordon saw the tremor of palsy and dismay in his limbs, 
and, putting his lips to the crevice, repeated, " Father ! " 
in a low and supplicating tone. That word made Gavin 
shudder; but when Gordon added, "Father! father! save 
me ! " he sprang to the wall, drew back the iron bolts of a 



GORDON THE GYPSY. 321 

narrow door invisible to any eye but his own, and gave 
admission to the rnufllcd man, who leaped eagerly in. 
Thirty years had passed since Gavin Cameron had seen 
his son ; and Gordon well knew how many rumors had 
been spread, that the younger Cameron had not really 
perished, though the ruin of the Chevalier's cause rendered 
his concealment necessary. Gavin's hopes and love had 
been all revived by these rumors; and the sudden appa- 
rition, the voice, the appeal for mercy, had full effect on the 
bereaved father's imagination. The voice, eyes, and figure 
of Gordon, resembled those of his son ; all else might and 
must be changed by thirty years. He wept like an infant 
on his shoulder, grasped his hand a hundred times, and 
forgot to blame him for the rash disloyalty he had shown 
to his father's cause. His pretended son told him a few 
strange events which had befallen him during his long 
banishment since 1715, and was spared the toil of invent- 
ing many, by the fond delight of the old man, weeping 
and rejoicing over his prodigal restored. He only asked 
by what happy chance he had discovered his secret en- 
trance, and whether any present danger threatened him. 
Gordon answered the first question with the mere truth, 
and added, almost truly, that he feared nothing but the 
emissaries of the government, from whom he could not be 
better concealed than in Drummond's Keep. Old Cameron 
agreed with joyful eagerness, but presently said, "Allan, 
my boy, we must trust Annet ; she's too near kin to betray 
ye, and ye were to have been her spouse." Then he 
explained that his niece was the only person in his house- 
hold acquainted with the basket and the bell ; that by her 
help he could provide a mattress and provisions for his 
son, but, without it, would be forced to hazard the most 
dangerous inconveniences. Gordon had not foreseen this 
proposal, and it darkened his countenance ; but in another 
instant his imagination seized on a rich surfeit of revenge. 
He was commanded to return into the cavern passage, 



322 GORDON THE GYPSY. 

while his nominal father prepared his kinswoman for her 
new guest ; and he listened greedily to catch the answers 
Annet gave to her deceived uncle's tale. He heard the 
hurry of her steps, preparing, as he supposed, a larger 
supper for the old laird's table, with the simplicity and 
hospitality of a Highland maiden. He was not mistaken. 
When the bannocks, and grouse, and claret, were arranged, 
Cameron presented his restored son to the mistress of the 
feast. Gordon was pale and dumb as he looked upon her. 
Accustomed to the wild, haggard forms that accompanied 
his banditti in half female attire, ruling their miserable 
offspring with iron hands, and the voices of giants, his 
diseased fancy had fed itself on an idea of something 
beautiful, but only in bloom and youth. He expected 
and hoped to see a child full of playful folly, fit for him 
to steal away and hide in his den as a sport for his 
secret leisure ; but a creature so fair, calm, and saintly, 
he had long since forgotten how to imagine. She came 
before him like a dream of some lovely picture remem- 
bered in his youth ; and with her came some remembrance 
of his former self The good old laird, forgetting that his 
niece had been but a child, and his son a stripling, when 
they parted, indulged the joy of his heart by asking Annet, 
a thousand times, whether she could have remembered 
her betrothed husband, and urging his son, since he was 
still unmarried, to pledge his promised bride. Gordon 
was silent from a feeling so new, that he could not com- 
prehend his own purposes ; and Annet from fear, when 
she observed the darkness and the fire that came by turns 
into her kinsman's face. But there was yet another peril 
to encounter. Cameron's large hearth was attended by a 
dog, which roused itself when supper appeared ; and Gor- 
don instantly recognized his banished favorite. Black 
Chieftain fixed his eyes on his former master, and, with a 
growl that delighted him more than any caresses would 
have done, remained sulkily by the fire. On the other 



GORDON THE GYPSY. 323 

side of the ingle, under the shelter of the huge chimney- 
arch, sat a thing hardly human, but entitled, from extreme 
old age, to the protection of the owner. This was a 
woman bent entirely double, with no apparent sense of 
sight or hearing, though her eyes were fixed on the spindle 
she was twirling ; and sometimes, when the laird raised 
his voice, she put her lean hand on the curch or hood that 
covered her ears. " Do you not remember poor old Mari- 
an Moome ? " * said Annet : and the laird led his supposed 
son towards the superannuated crone, though without 
expecting any mark of recognition. Whether she had 
noticed any thing that had passed, could not be judged 
from her laugh ; and she had almost ceased to speak. 
Therefore, as if only dumb domestic animals had been 
sitting by his hearth, Cameron pursued his arrangements 
for his son's safety, advising him to sleep composedly in 
the wooden panelled bed that formed a closet of this 
chamber, without regarding the half-living skeleton, who 
never left the corner of the ingle. He gave him hi? 
blessing, and departed, taking with him his niece and the 
key of this dreary room, promising to return and watch 
by his side. He came back in a few moments, and, while 
the impostor couched himself on his mattress, took his 
station again by the fire, and fell asleep, overcome with 
joy and fatigue. 

The embers went out by degrees, while the Highland 
Jachimo lay meditating how he should prosper by his 
stratagem's success. Plunder and bloodshed had formed 
no part of a scheme which included far deeper craft and 
finer revenge. He knew his life was forfeit, and his per- 
son traced by officers of justice ; and he hoped, by repre- 
senting himself as the son of Cameron, to secure all the 
benefits of his influence, and the sanctuary of his roof; 
and if both should fail to save him from justice, the 



* Nurse or foster-mother. 



324 GORDON THE GYPSY. 

disgrace of his infamous life and death would fall on the 
family of his father's murderer ; so from his earliest youth 
he had considered Cameron ; and the l]and of that drowned 
father, uplifted in vain for help, was always present to his 
imagination. Once, during this mght, he had thought 
of robbing Cameron by force, of his money and jewels, 
and carrying off his niece, as a hostage for his safety. 
But this part of his purpose had been deadened by a new 
and strange sense of holiness in beauty, which had made 
his nature human again. Yet he thought of himself with 
bitterness and ire, when he compared her sweet society, 
her uncle's kindness, and the comforts of a domestic 
hearth, with the herd which he now resembled ; and this 
self-hatrec stung him to rise and depart without molesting 
them. He was prevented by Ihe motion of a shadow on 
the opposite wall, and in an instant the dog who had so 
sullenly shunned his notice, leaped from beneath his bed, 
and seized the throat of the hag as she crept near it. She 
had taken her sleeping master's dirk, and would have used 
it like a faithful Highland servant, if Black Chieftain's 
fangs had not interposed to rescue Gordon. The broad 
copper broach which fastened her plaid, saved her from 
suffocation, and, clapping her hands, she yelled, ''A Gor- 
don ! a Gordon !" till the roof rung. 

Gavin Cameron awoke, and ran to his supposed son's 
aid, but the mischief was done. The doors of the huge 
chamber were broken open, and a troop of men in the 
king's uniform, and two messengers with official staves, 
burst in together. These people had been sent by the 
lord provost in quest of the gypsy chieftain, with authority 
to demand quarters in Drummond's Tower, near which 
they knew he had hiding-places. Gordon saw he had 
plunged into the very nest of his enemies ; but his daring 
courage supported him. He refused to answer to the 
name of Gordon, and persisted in calling himself Came- 
ron's son. He was carried before the high court of jus- 



GORDON THE GYPSY. 325 

ticiary, and the importance of the indictment fixed the 
most eager attention on his trial. Considering the celeb- 
rity, the length, and the publicity of the gypsy chief's 
career, it was thought his person would have been instant- 
ly identified ; but the craft he had used in tinging his 
hair, complexion, and eyebrows, and altering his whole 
appearance to resemble's Cameron's son, baffled the many 
who appeared as his accusers. So much had Gordon 
attached his colleagues, or so strong was the Spartan spirit 
of fidelity and obedience amongst them, that not one ap- 
peared to testify against him. Gavin Cameron and his 
niece were cited to give their evidence on oath ; and the 
miserable father, whatever doubts might secretly arise in 
his mind, dared not hazard a denial which might sacrifice 
his own son's life. He answered in an agony which his 
gray hairs made venerable, that he believed the accused 
to be his son, but left it to himself to prove what he had 
no means of manifesting. Annet was called next to con- 
firm her uncle's account of her cousin's mysterious arrival; 
but when the accused turned his eyes upon her, she 
fainted, and could not be recalled to speech. This swoon 
was deemed the most affecting evidence of his identity. 
And, finally, the dog was brought into court. Several 
witnesses recognized him as the prime forager of the 
Gordon gypsies ; but Cameron's steward, who swore that 
he saved him by chance from drowning in the loch, also 
proved, that the animal never showed the smallest sagacity 
in herding sheep, and had been kept by his master's fire- 
side as a mere household guard, distinguished by his lu- 
dicrous attention to music. When shown at the bar, the 
crafty and conscious brute seemed wholly unacquainted 
with the prisoner, and his surly silence was received as 
evidence by the crowd. The lord high commissioner 
summed up the whole, and the chancellor of the jury de- 
clared that a majority, almost amounting to unanimity, 
acquitted the accused. Gordon, under the name of Cam- 
28 



326 GORDON THE GYPSY. 

eron, was led from the bar with acclamations ; but, at the 
threshold of the session's court, another pursuivant awaited 
him with an arrest for high treason, as an adherent to 
the Pretender in arms. The enraged crowd would have 
rescued him by force, and made outcries, which he silenced 
with a haughty air of command, desiring to be led back 
to his judges. He insisted in such cool and firm language, 
and his countenance had in it such a rare authority, that, 
after some dispute about the breach of official order, he 
was admitted into a room where two or three of the chief 
lords of session, and the chancellor of the jury, were as- 
sembled. Though still fettered, both on hands and feet, 
he stood before them in an attitude of singular grace, and 
made this speech, as it appears in the language of the 
record. 

" The people abroad would befriend me, because they 
love the cause they think I have served ; and my judges, 
I take leave to think, would pity me, if they saw an old 
man and a tender woman pleading again for my life. But 
1 will profit in nothing by my judge's pity, nor the peo- 
ple's love for a Cameron. I have triumphed enough to- 
day, since I have baffled both my accusers and my jury. 
I am Gordon, chief of the wandering tribes ; but, since you 
have acquitted me on ' soul and conscience,' you cannot 
try me again ; and, since I am not Cameron, you cannot 
try me for Cameron's treasons. I have had my revenge 
of my father's enemy, and I might have had more. He 
once felt the dead grip * of a Gordon ; and he should have 
felt it again if he had not called me his son, and blessed 
me as my father once did. If you had sent me to the 
Grass-market, I would have been hanged as a Cameron ; 
for it is better for one of that name than mine to die the 
death of a dog ; but, since you have set me free, I will live 
free as a Gordon." 

This extraordinary appeal astonished and confounded 

* The grasp of a drowning man. 



DEATH AND THE DRUNKARDS. 327 

his hearers. They were ashamed of their mistaken judg- 
ment, and dismayed at the dilemma. They cotdd nei- 
ther prove him to be a Cameron nor a Gordon, except by 
his own avowal, which might be false either in the first or 
second cause ; and, after some consultation with the sec- 
retary of state, it was agreed to transport him privately to 
France. But on his road to a seaport, his escort was at- 
tacked by a troop of wild men and women, who fought with 
the fury of Arabs, till they had rescued their leader, whose 
name remained celebrated till within the last sixty years 
as the most formidable of the gypsy tribe. 

James Hogg. 



DEATH AND THE DRUNKARDS. 

There was in Flanders, once, a company of foolish 
gallants, who spent their time in taverns, and indulged 
themselves in gambling and debauchery of all kinds 
Night and day they did little else but dance to the 
sound of lutes and harps, and play at dice, and eat and 
drink beyond their might ; so that, by such abominable 
superfluity, they, in a cursed manner, made sacrifice to 
the devil within his own temple. 

Three of these rioters were, one morning, drinking, as 
usual, in a tavern, and as they sate, they heard a bell clink 
before a corpse which was being carried to its grave. 
Then one of them called to his boy, and said, " Go, and 
ask readily what corpse this is now passing forth by the 
gate, and look thou report his name well." 

" Sir," quoth the boy, ** I knew it two hours before you 
came here. He was an old companion of yours, and was 
slain suddenly ; for, as he sate drunken on his bench, 
there came a secret thief, men call Death (that kills all 



828 DEATH AND iHE DRUNKARDS. 

the people in this country) ; and with his spear he smote 
his heart in two, and then went his v/ay without speaking. 
He hath slain a thousand, this pestilence ; and, master, 
ere you come into his presence, methinks it were full ne- 
cessary to beware of him, and to be evermore ready to 
meet him. Thus taught me my dame." 

*' By Saint Mary," said the host of the tavern, " the child 
says truly; for this fearful thing hath slain, this year, with- 
in a village about a mile hence, both men, women, and 
children, so that I trow he has his habitation there. It 
were great wisdom to be well advised about him." 

Then up spake one of the rioters, and said, " Is it such 
peril to meet with him ? I vow that I'll seek him by stile 
and street. Hearken, my boys : we three are one : let 
each hold up his hand, and we will become brothers, and 
will kill this false traitor, Death. Before night he shall be 
slain, — he that so many slayeth." And, so saying, he 
shouted a terrible oath. 

Then these three, having plighted their troths to live and 
die by each other, started up all drunken in their rage, and 
went towards the hamlet of which the taverner had spoken ; 
and, as they went reeling along the way, they roared out 
with their thick voices, " Death shall be dead if we can 
catch him," 

They had not gone half a mile, when, lo ! just as they 
were crossing a gate, they saw a poor old man, w^ho greet- 
ed them full meekly, and said, " Now, God save you, 
lords ! " 

The proudest of these three rioters answered, " What, 
thou sorry churl ! why art thou wrapped so closely over, 
save thy face ? Why dost thou continue to live in such 
great age ? " 

At this, the old man looked him in the visage, and said, 
" Because I cannot meet a man, either in city or in vil- 
lage, even though I walked into the Indies, who would 
change his youth for my age ; and, therefore, I must still 



DEATH AND THE DRUNKARDS. 329 

keep my age, as long as God pleases. Death will not 
have my life, alas ! And thus walk I, like a restless 
caitiff; and, on the ground, which is my mother's gate, I 
knock night and morning, with my staff, crying, ' Dear 
mother, let me in. Lo ! how I vanish, flesh and blood. 
When shall my Vv^eary bones be still? ' But she will not do 
me such kindness, for which full pale and welked* is my 
face. Yet, sirs, it is not courteous in you to speak rough- 
ly to an old man, except he trespass in word or deed ; 
for it is said in holy writ, as you may yourselves see, that 
ye should not rise against a hoary head ; therefore do no 
more harm now to an old man, than ye would a man should 
do to you in age, if that ye abide so long ; and so God be 
with you ever ! I must go my ways." 

•' Nay, old churl, by St. John, thou partest not so lightly," 
swore one of these rioters. " Thou spakest, just now, of 
that traitor. Death, that slayeth all our friends in this coun- 
try. Thou art his spy ; and, believe me, thou shalt either 
tell where he is, or thou shalt rue it ; for, truly, thou art one 
of his accomplices to kill us young folk, thou false thief" 

'* Now, sirs," then quoth this old man, *' if you truly wish 
to find Death, turn up this crooked way, for, by my faith, I 
left him in that grove, under a tree ; and there he will stay, 
nothing hiding himself for all your boasting. See ye that 
oak ? Right there shall ye meet him ; and Christ, that 
bought again mankind, save and amend you ! " 

Thus spake the old man ; and away ran these three riot- 
ers till they came to the tree, under which, behold ! they 
found well nigh eight bushels of fine gold florins. They 
were so glad of this sight, that they sought no longer after 
Death ; but, looking round them, they sat down on the 
hard roots of the tree, nothing heeding the uneasiness of 
the seat, so eager were they to be near the precious hoard. 

" Brethren," said the worst of the three, '' take heed what 



* Furrowed, wrinkled. 

28* 



330 DEATH AND THE DRUNKARDS. 

I shall say. Fortune hath given us this treasure to the 
end we may live all our lives in mirth and jollity. As 
it came lightly, lightly let us spend it. Who would have 
thought," continued he, swearing a great oath, ** that we 
should have met such luck to-day? If this gold could but 
be carried out of this grove home to my house, then were we 
in high felicity; but it may not be done by day, for men 
would say we were strong thieves, and hang us for pos- 
sessing our own treasure : no ; it must be carried by night, 
wisely and slyly; therefore, I am of opinion, that we draw 
lots, and he who draws the lowest shall run to the town, 
with blithe heart, and bring us bread and wine, while the 
other two shall subtly keep the treasure ; and when it is 
night, we will take it, by one assent, where we may think 
best." 

Then he brought the lots in his hand, and bade them 
draw ; and the lowest fell on the youngest one ; and anon 
he went forth toward the town. Now, as soon as he was 
departed, the rioter, who spake before, said thus unto his 
fellow : — 

" Thou knowest well thou art my sworn brother; there- 
fore will I tell thee thy profit. Our fellow is gone, and here 
is gold, and that full great store, which is to be shared among 
us three ; but if I can shape it so, that it may be parted 
among us two, shall I not do a friend's turn to thee ? " 

The other answered, "I cannot think how that may be : 
he knows well that the gold is with us. What, therefore, 
should we do ? What could we say to him 1 " 

" Shall it be counsel, then ? " said the first : " if so, I will 
tell you, in few words, how we can bring it about." 

And the other answered, '' I plight thee my troth that I 
will not bewray thee." 

" Now," quoth this wicked hazarder, " thou knowest well 
that we are two, and two of us shall be stronger than one. 
Look, when he is set down, that thou rise anon, and make 
as though thou playest with him, and while ye are strug- 



DEATH AND THE DRUNKARDS. 331 

gling, as in game, I will stab him through his two sides; 
and do thou do the same with thy dagger. And then, my 
dear friend, shall this gold be parted 'twixt thee and me ; 
and so shall we be able to fulfil our desires, and play at 
dice at our own will." 

Thus be these two hazarders agreed to slay the third, 
who, as he went along the road, kept rolling up and down 
in his heart the beauty of those bright and new florins. 
** O Lord," quoth he, " that I might but have this treasure 
to myself alone ! There would be no man under the 
heavens that should live so merry as I." 

And at the last the fiend put it into his thought, that 
he should buy poison to slay his fellows; for the fiend 
found him living in such a wanton way, that he lusted to 
bring him to sorrow ; therefore, he made him deter- 
mine to do the homicide, and never to repent. So he 
went straightway unto an apothecary in the town, and 
prayed him that he would sell some poison to kill the rats 
in his house ; and there was also a polecat, that, as he said, 
slew his capons, and he would fain be rid of such destroy- 
ing vermin. 

The apothecary answered, " Thou shalt have a thing, 
that, if it be taken by any creature in this world, though 
it be no more in quantity than a grain of wheat, shall 
anon destroy his life ; yea, he shall wither away in less 
time than thou wilt go a mile, the poison is so strong 
and violent." 

Then this cursed man took into his hand the poison, in 
a box, and went into the next street, and borrowed three 
large bottles, and poured the poison into two of them, 
keeping the third clean for his own drink. And when, 
with sorry grace, he had filled his great bottles with wine, 
he repaired again to his fellows. 

What need is there to say more ? ^ For even as they 
had planned his death, even so they slew him, and that 



332 PETER CLAUS. 

quickly. And when it was done, thus spake the worst of 
these rioters: — 

" Now let us sit and drink, and make us merry, and 
afterwards we will hide his body in the ground." 

And with these words he took the bottle where the poi- 
son was, and drank, and gave it to his fellow ; and anon 
there came upon them strange signs of poison, and thej 
perished. 

Thus ended be these two homicides; and also their 
false companion ; ai,d thus did they find death under the 
oak in the old grove. 

Abridged from Chaucer. 



PETER CLAUS;— A GERMAN LEGEND.* 

Peter Claus was a goatherd of Sittendorf, and tend- 
ed his flocks in the Kyffhausen mountains : here he was 
accustomed to let thein rest every evening in a mead, sur- 
rounded by an old wall, while he made his muster of them ; 
but for some days he had remarked that one of his finest 
goats always disappeared some time after coming to this 
spot, and did not join the flock till late : watching her 
more attentively, he observed that she slipped through an 
opening in the wall ; upon which he crept after the animal, 
and found her in a sort of cave, busily employed in glean- 
ing the oat-grains that dropped down singly from the roof 
He looked up, and shook his ears amidst the shower of 
corn that now fell down upon him, but, with all his inquiry, 
could discover nothing. At last he heard above the stamp 

* This legend is th^ source of Washington living's celebrated 
Rip Van Winkle.— Eds. 



PETER CLAUS. 333 

and neighing of horses, from whose mangers, it was proba- 
ble, the oats had fallen. 

Peter was yet standing in astonishment at the sound of 
horses in so unusual a place, when a boy appeared, who, 
by signs, without speaking a word, desired him to follow. 
Accordingly he ascended a few steps, and passed over a 
walled court into a hollow, closed in on all sides by lofty 
rocks, where a partial twilight shot through the over- 
spreading foliage of the shrubs. Here, upon a smooth, 
fresh lawn, he found twelve knights playing gravely at 
nine-pins, and not one spoke a syllable : with equal silence 
Peter was installed in the office of setting up the nine- 
pins. 

At first, he performed his duty with knees that knocked 
against each other, as he now and then stole a partial look 
at the lonop beards and slashed doublets of the noble kniojhts. 
By degrees, however, custom gave him courage ; he gazed 
on every thing with firmer look, and, at last, even ventured 
to drink out of a bowl that stood near him, from which the 
wine exhaled a most delicious odor. The glowing juice 
made him feel as if re-animated, and, whenever he found 
the least weariness, he again drew fresh vigor from the 
inexhaustible goblet. Sleep at last overcame him. 

Upon waking, Peter found himself in the very same en- 
closed mead where he was wont to tend his herds. He 
rubbed his eyes, but could see no sign either of dog or 
goats, and was, besides, not a little astonished at the high 
grass, and shrubs, and trees, which he had never before 
observed there. Not well knowing what to think, he con- 
tinued his way over all the places that he had been accus- 
tomed to frequent with his goats ; but no where could he 
find any traces of them : below him he saw Sittendorf, 
and, at length, with hasty steps, he descended. 

The people, whom he met before the village, were all 
strangers to him ; they had not the dress of his acquaint- 
ance, nor yet did they exactly speak their language ; and 



334 PETER CLAUS. 

when he asked after liis goats, all stared and touched their 
chins. At last he did the same almost involuntarily, and 
found his beard lengthened by a foot, at least ; upon which 
he began to conclude that himself and those about him 
were equally under the influence of enchantment ; still 
he recognized the mountain he had descended for the 
Kyffhausen ; the houses, too, with their yards and gardens, 
were all familiar to him, and to the passing questions of a 
traveller, several boys replied by the name of Sittendorf 

With increasing doubt, he now walked through the 
village to his house : it was much decayed, and before it 
lay a strange goatherd's boy in a ragged frock, by whose 
side was a dog, worn lank by age, that growled and snarled 
when he spoke to him. He then entered the cottage 
through an opening which had once been closed by a door; 
here, too, he found all so void and waste, that he tottered 
out again at the back door as if intoxicated, and called his 
wife and children by their names ; but none heard, none 
answered. 

In a short time, women and children thronged around 
the stranger with the long, hoary beard, and all, as if for 
a wager, joined in inquiring what he wanted. Before his 
own house to ask others after his wife, or children, or 
even of himself, seemed so strange, that, to get rid of these 
querists, he mentioned the first name that occurred to 
him, "Kurt Steffen ? " The by-standers looked at each 
other in silence, till, at last, an old woman said, " He 
has been in the church-yard these twelve years ; and you'll 
not go there to-day." '* Velten Meier ? " " Heaven rest his 
soul!" replied an ancient dame, leaning upon her crutch; 
'^ Heaven rest his soul ! He has lain these fifteen years 
in the house that he will never leave." 

The goatherd shuddered, as, in the last speaker, he rec- 
ognized his neighbor, who seemed to have suddenly 
grown old ; but he had lost all desire for further question. 
At this moment, a brisk young woman pressed through 



My TWO AUNTS. 335 

the anxious gapers, carrying an infant in her arms, and 
leading by the hand a girl of about fourteen years old, all 
three the very image of his wife. With increasing sur- 
prise, he asked her name : " Maria ! " "And your father's?" 
" Peter Claus ! Heaven rest his soul ! It is now twenty 
years since we sought him day and night on the Kyffhau- 
sen mountains, when his flock returned without him ; I 
was then but seven years old." 

The goatherd could contain himself no longer ; "I am 
Peter Claus," he cried, " I am Peter Claus, and none else ; " 
and he snatched the child from his daughter's arms. All 
for a moment stood as if petrified, till, at length, one voice, 
and another, and another, exclaimed, " Yes, this is Peter 
Claus ! Welcome, neighbor ! Welcome, after twentv 
years ! " 



MY TWO AUNTS. 



Philosophers tell us that we know nothing but from its 
opposite ; then I certainly know my two aunts very per- 
fectly, for greater opposites were never made since the 
formation of light and darkness ; but tiiey were both good 
creatures — so are light and darkness both good things in 
their place. My two aunts, however, were not so appro- 
priately to be compared to light and darkness as to crumb 
and crust — the crumb and crust of a new loaf; the crumb 
of which is marvellously soft, and the crust of which is ex- 
ceedingly crisp, dry, and snappish. The one was my fa- 
ther's sister, and the other was my mother's ; and very cu- 
riously it happened that they were both named Bridget. 
To distinguish between them, we young folks used to call 
the quiet and easy one aunt Bridget, and the bustling, 
worrying one, aunt Fidget. You never, in the whole 
course of your life, saw such a quiet, easy, comfortable 



336 MY TWO AUNTS. 

creature as aunt Bridget — she was not immoderately large, 
but prodigiously fat. Her weight did not exceed twen- 
ty stone, or two-and-twenty at the utmost — but she 
might be called prodigiously fat, because she was all 
fat; I don't think there was an ounce of lean in her 
whole composition. She was so imperturbably good- 
natured, that I really do not believe that she was 
ever in a passion in the whole course of her life. I 
have no doubt that she had her troubles : we all have 
troubles, more or less ; but aunt Bridget did not like to 
trouble herself to complain. The greatest trouble that 
she endured, was the alternation of day and night : it 
was a trouble to her to go up stairs to bed, and it was a 
trouble to her to come down stairs to breakfast ; but, when 
she was once in bed, she couid sleep ten hours without 
dreaming ; and when she was once up, and seated in her 
comfortable arm-chair, by the fireside, with her knitting 
apparatus in order, and a nice, fat, flat, comfortable quarto 
volume on a small table at her side, the leaves of which 
volume she could turn over with her knitting needle, she 
was happy for the day : the grief of getting up was for- 
gotten, and the trouble of getting to bed was not antici- 
pated. Knowing her aversion to moving, I was once sau- 
cy enough to recommend her to make two days into one, 
that she might not have the trouble of going up and down 
stairs so often. Any body but aunt Bridget would have 
boxed my ears for my impertinence, and would, in so do- 
ing, have served me rightly ; but she, good creature, took 
it all in good part, and said, " Yes, my dear, it would save 
trouble, but I am afraid it would not be good for my 
health — I should not have exercise enough." Aunt Brid- 
get loved quiet, and she lived in the quietest place in the 
world. There is not a spot in the deserts of Arabia, or 
in the Frozen Ocean, to be for a moment compared for 
quietness with Hans-place — 

*' The very houses seem asleep ;'' 



MY TWO AUNTS. 337 

and when the bawlers of milk, mackerel, dabs, and floun- 
ders, enter the placid precincts of that place, they scream 
with a subdued violence, like the hautboy played with a 
piece of cotton in the bell. You might almost fancy that 
oval of building to be some mysterious egg, on which the 
genius of silence had sat brooding ever since the creation 
of the world, or even before Chaos had combed its head 
and washed its face. There is in that place a silence that 
may be heard, a delicious stillness which the ear drinks 
in as greedily as the late Mr. Dando used to gulp oysters. 
It is said that, when the inhabitants are all asleep, they can 
hear one another snore. Here dwelt my aunt Bridget — 
kindest of the kind, and quietest of the quiet. But good na- 
ture is terribly imposed upon in this wicked world of ours ; 
and so it was with aunt Bridget. Her poulterer, I am 
sure, used to charge her at least ten per cent, more than 
any of the rest of liis customers, because she never found 
fault. She was particularly fond of ducks, very likely from 
a sympathy with their quiet style of locomotion ; but she 
disliked haggling about the price, and she abhorred the 
trouble of choosing them ; so she left it to the man's con- 
science to send what he pleased, and to charge what he 
pleased. I declare that I have seen upon her table such 
withered, wizened, toad-like villains of half-starved ducks, 
that they looked as if they had died of the whooping-cough. 
And if ever I happened to say any thing approaching to re- 
proach of the poulterer, aunt would always make the same 
reply, — "I don't like to be always finding fault." It was 
the same with her wine as it was with her poultry : she used 
to fancy that she had Port and Sherry ; but she never had 
any thing better than Pontac and Cape Madeira. There 
was one luxury of female life which my aunt never enjoy- 
ed — she never had the pleasure of scolding the maids. 
She once made the attempt, but it did not succeed. She 
had a splendid set of Sunday crockery, done in blue and 
gold; and, by the carelessness of one of her maids, the 
29 



338 MY TWO AUNTS. 

whole service was smashed at one fell swoop. " Now, 
that is too bad," said my aunt ; " I really will tell her of 
it." So I was in hopes of seeing aunt Bridget in a pas- 
sion, which would have been as rare a sight as an Ameri- 
can aloe in blossom. She rang the bell with most heroic 
vigor, and with an expression of almost a determination to 
say something very severe to Betty, when she should make 
her appearance. Indeed, if the bell-pull had been Betty, 
she might have heard half the first sentence of a terrible 
scolding; but before Betty could answer the summons of 
the bell, my aunt was as cool as a turbot at a tavern din- 
ner. "Betty," said she, '' are they all broke?" "Yes, 
ma'am," said Betty. " How came you to break them? " 
said my aunt. " They slipped off the tray, ma'am," re- 
plied Betty. " Well, then, be more careful another time," 
said my aunt. " Yes, ma'am," said Betty. 

Next morning, another set was ordered. This was not 
the first, second, or third time that my aunt's crockery 
had come to an untimely end. My aunt's maids had a 
rare place in her service. They had high life below stairs 
in perfection ; people used to wonder that she did not see 
how she was imposed upon : bless her old heart ! she nev- 
er liked to see what she did not like to see — and so long 
as she could be quiet she was happy. She was a living 
emblem of the Pacific Ocean. 

But my aunt Fidget was quite another thing. She on- 
ly resembled my aunt Bridget in one particular ; that is, 
she had not an ounce of lean about her ; but then she had 
no fat neither — she was all skin and bone ; I cannot say 
for a certainty, but I really believe, that she had no mar- 
row in her bones : she was as light as a feather, as dry as 
a stick, and, had it not been for her pattens, she must have 
been blown away in windy weather. As for quiet, she 
knew not the meaning of the word : she was flying about 
from morning till night, like a fagot in fits, and finding 
fault with every body and every thing. Her tongue and 



MY TWO AUNTS. 339 

her toes had no sinecures. Had she weighed as many 
pounds as my aunt Bridget weighed stones, she would 
have worn out half-a-dozen pair of shoes in a week. I 
don't believe that aunt Bridget ever saw the inside of 
her kitchen, or that she knew exactly where it was ; but 
aunt Fidget was in all parts of the house at once — she 
saw every thing, heard every thing, remembered every 
thing, and scolded about every thing. She was not to be 
imposed upon, either by servants or trades- people. She 
kept a sharp look out upon them all. She knew when and 
where to go to market. Keen was her eye for the turn of 
the scale, and she took pretty good care that the butcher 
should not dab his mutton chops too hastily in the scale, 
making momentum tell for weight. I cannot think what 
she wanted with meat, for she looked as if she ate nothing 
but raspings, and drank nothing but vinegar. Her love of 
justice in the matter of purchasing was so great, that when 
her fishmonger sent her home a pennyworth of sprats, she 
sent one back to be changed because it had but one eye. 
She had such a strict inventory of all her goods and chat- 
tels, that, if any one plundered her of a pin, she was sure 
to find it out. She would miss a pea out of a peck ; and 
she once kept her establishment up half the night to hunt 
about for a bit of cheese that was missing — -it was at last 
found in the mouse-trap. " You extravagant minx," said 
she to the maid, " here is cheese enough to bait three 
mouse-traps ; " and she nearly had her fingers snapped off in 
her haste to rescue the cheese from its prison. I used not 
to dine with my aunt Fidget so often as with my aunt 
Bridget, for my aunt Fidget worried my very life out with 
the history of every article that was brought to table. 
She made me undergo the narration of all that she had 
said, and all that the butcher or the poulterer had said, con- 
cerning the purchase of the provision ; and she used 
always to tell me what was the price of mutton when her 
mother was a girl — twopence a pound for the common 



340 MY TWO AUNTS. 

pieces, and twopence-halfpenny for the prime pieces. 
Moreover, she always entertained me with an account of 
all her troubles, and with the sins and iniquities of her 
abominable servants, whom she generally changed once a 
month. Indeed, had I been inclined to indulge her with 
more of my company, I could not always manage to find 
her residence ; for she was moving about from place to 
place, so that it was like playing a game of hunt the slip- 
per to endeavor to find her. She once actually threaten- 
ed to leave London altogether, if she could not find some 
more agreeable residence than hitherto it had been 
her lot to meet with. But there was one evil in my 
aunt Fidget's behavior, which disturbed me more than 
any thing else ; she was always expecting that I should 
join her in abusing my placid aunt Bridget. Aunt Brid- 
get's style of house-keeping was not, perhaps, quite the 
pink of perfection, but it was not for me to find fault with 
it; and if she did sit still all day, she never found fault 
with those who did not ; she never said any thing evil of 
any of her neighbors. Aunt Fidget might be flying about 
all day like a witch upon a broomstick ; but aunt Bridget 
made no remarks on it ; she let her fly. The very sight 
of aunt Fidget was enough to put one out of breath — she 
whisked about from place to place at such a rapid rate, 
always talking at the rate of nineteen to the dozen. We 
boys used to say of her that she never sat long enough in 
a chair to warm the cover. But she is gone — requiescat 
in pace; * and that is more than ever she did in her life- 
time. 

* May she rest in peace. 



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